By Gaslight
by elanurel
Summary: In 1863, Mary Winchester was cruelly lost within a fire. Since that day, John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick while raising his sons to follow in his footsteps. Adult content. WIP
1. Wherein Brave Heroes go Hunting

_**By Gaslight**_

Twenty-two years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home. Since that day, a bereaved John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick upon his family; raising his sons to follow in his footsteps.

Armed with Samuel's inventions and Deane's uncanny ability to bring down any prey, the brothers Winchester travel through Great Britain and Europe, following clues they receive in the form of mysterious letters — and Samuel's disturbing visions.

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Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. Likewise, the idea of the weapons they use owes more to Jules Verne than to my own devising. And while Mr. Winchester's peculiar mode of transport has not yet made an appearance, its particular execution also does not belong to me. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, Samuel Winchester, OFC (Penelope Harcourt), OFC (Mary)

Pairings (Overall): Deane/OFC (multiple), Samuel/OFC

Rating (Overall): M

Rating: T (Mild language.)

Summary: Penelope Harcourt returns to Highchurch, her family's beloved country home, within the company of two strange brothers. Ten hours trapped in a carriage with Deane Winchester has left her decidedly out of sorts.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie. Between the two of us, we have pushed what was meant simply as a one-shot corset-ripper into a world that is spawning sequel ideas. Multi-part sequel ideas.

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**Chapter One: Wherein Brave Heroes go Hunting, and a Good Friend is Lost**

_My Dearest Cousin,_

It is my hope that this missive finds you well and in good spirits.

I have, as you no doubt assumed, arrived at Highchurch relatively unscathed and with my humour intact. Given the day that I have had, this is an amazing consequence and one which I shall relay in further detail.

The journey from London to Dorsey was relatively uneventful. I traveled in the company of a newlywed couple, Mr. and Mrs. Freddie Wetherby. The Wetherbys were traveling to Dorsey on their way to the Wetherby family estate, being met in the morning by a private carriage. I recommended they take their repast in the Bull and Bush, as Peter and I always found the food delightful and the accommodations - while rustic - charming in their simplicity.

You know, of course, what happened next.

Mrs. Wetherby pounced upon me the moment her husband was inquiring about additional vacancy - asking all sorts of questions about the marriage bed. Why does every young bride decide to ask me the particulars of a wife's duty? I know this amuses you to no end, Verd, but it is simply preposterous to assume that I am an expert on the details simply because I was married. As easy to say that your Templeton is an expert in horses simply because he can ride.

In any case, a very happy couple bid me good day as they set upon their carriage this morning - Mrs. Wetherby and I shall be exchanging letters - and I prepared for the journey to Westshire.

Much to my chagrin, the coachman informed me that I would be joined by two new companions - a pair of brothers by name of Winchester. Deane Winchester, the eldest, was slightly rumpled in appearance - from the short brown hair to his poorly-starched collar and waistcoat - and was uncomfortable, I suspect, to be so attired; to my eternal vexation, he was not unhandsome. In point of fact, Deane Winchester was as clean-shaven as his younger brother, Samuel. Samuel Winchester looked exactly like the boys who attended father's classes at Oxford, complete with the longer hair parted exactly down the center of his head and a set of spectacles added to his scholarly appearance.

One wonders if their valet - who must have been traveling on the board - is required to carry a ruler simply to engender the proper symmetry for Mr. Samuel's hair.

To be fair, both Winchesters were not unhandsome. Yet Mr. Winchester seemed to know this, whereas Samuel did not. There is nothing more incommodious than a handsome man who knows it - as if he was owed something simply because Nature had the grace to make him so.

I was shocked to learn that they were the same Winchesters who owned the manor house near Highchurch - the unfortunate one that burned down twenty years ago. Young Mr. Samuel informed me that their father still holds the baronage, although John Winchester's travels abroad have interfered with his ability to maintain the estate day-to-day, and there is a steward who acts on the family's behalf. The lands are attached to a sizable annuity, if Father is to be believed.

They were kind enough to sit across from me, although the eldest - a veritable Rogue, if ever one graced my path - asked to set a rather large leather carrying case next to me. Despite the lack of space this now afforded me, the trip would have been tolerable save for the damnable flirting - yes, I know I am supposed to be ladylike, but you've not yet had the displeasure of ten hours in a carriage with Mr. Deane Winchester. It is my sincerest hope that you never endure such agony.

One would think a woman wearing mourning clothes - even half mourning - would be safe from such conduct. I do much wonder if Mr. Winchester takes a perverse pleasure in tormenting widows, as though our station in life makes us particularly susceptible to his obvious - and I use the term politely, for in truth I could not see them - charms.

Mr. Winchester did not even register my somewhat pointed - though terribly courteous - message: When a woman pulls out a book and starts reading it in front of you, one should generally assume that she is uninterested in your attentions. Mr. Winchester only desisted when the carriage wheel broke, and he determined it was more interesting to watch the coachman repair it than to annoy me.

Happily, I arrived home none the worse for wear: albeit much later than I had intended. Wharrow was waiting in Westshire with Father's carriage and we did not reach Highchurch until well after dinner had started - the fish course, if memory serves. Having spent nearly ten hours languishing in a carriage with nary a companion save _Silas Marner_ and the Winchester brothers, I was in no state to meet Father's guests over salmon.

Father did come to meet with me later, once dinner was finished. He does not wholly approve that I am following in Peter's footsteps, and even went so far as to inform me that I am simply posing as a naturalist by using Peter's work as my guide. I will happily endure the ridicule if it ensures his life's work will continue, although I confess I would far prefer to be at his side as we were, instead of completing the experiments and papers alone.

But you know Father can deny me nothing, and so he acquiesced when I sent him Peter's newest paper. Yes, dearest, I know you find the entire subject distasteful - as, in point of fact, do I - but it is a valid hypothesis regarding the propagation of plant life by native birds and, in any case, did not require much unpleasant interference on our parts given that many of the birds were already being convalesced.

Science is a dirty business, Verd, but we persevered. You should reconsider your decision regarding the paper, after so many hours in the rookery, you certainly earned the citation.

Did I tell you that it is good to be home? I miss the way the old house creaks at night, and the sounds outside near the stream. It's been so long since I went on an old-fashioned ramble, and I think I remember where we planted our treasure box. Perhaps I shall dig it up and send you what I find. Would that be ten or twelve sonnets to James Whitaker? I don't remember. How many sonnets can one twelve-year-old girl write?

At any rate, I shall bid you good night. Do not wear yourself out too entirely with dances and parties, now that you are no longer acting as companion to your widowed old cousin.

With much love,

Penelope

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Penelope Harcourt signed her name with a flourish, gently blotting her signature while the ink dried. She reached into the desk and pulled out an envelope, methodically addressing it to Vertiline. She waved the envelope gently, and then meticulously folded the letter. Wax heated, she set her husband's seal - the big "H" she had given him on their wedding night - on the edge of the flap.

She tapped her lip thoughtfully with the envelope, glancing towards the window. Propriety required that she ring the bell and wait for Wharrow to collect the letter, but Penelope rarely followed those rules - and it was not as though Wharrow expected her to act otherwise. Pulling on her shawl, she made her way out of her room in the South Wing and downstairs to the kitchen. She heard voices coming from the Billiards Room. _Father's guests, no doubt._ Penelope felt it best to avoid that part of the house entirely, dressed as she was in an informal writing dress, her old shawl, and a pair of _extremely_ old shoes.

Penelope Harcourt was serious about her old-fashioned rambles.

Mary was still in the kitchen when Penelope entered, putting left-over food from dinner into the panty. Blue eyes widened as Mary jumped. "Miss Penelope!" The cook frowned. "Not even home for three hours, and you're up to your old tricks. Sneaking around the house at all hours."

"I am on a mission, Mary." Penelope set the letter in the basket Wharrow kept on the sideboard.

"That's what worries me, Miss - " Mary shook her head. Try as she might, Mary had never been able to address Penelope as "Mrs. Harcourt," except for that one time during the wedding reception. "There are strange men in the house."

"I heard them. It sounded like Father pulled out the best brandy."

Mary frowned. "Not those men. Two others. They arrived after you did - gave them a spot of dinner before Wharrow showed them to their rooms."

"I suspect we might continue to receive guests as late as tomorrow afternoon. Isn't that when Father scheduled the introductory dinner?"

Mary's eyes dropped. It was Penelope's turn to frown - damn her stubborn father to hell! _It is not as though you're presenting your own work, Pen old girl. This is your husband's paper._ He had done it last year as well, completely ignoring the fact that he had raised a daughter well-suited to academia. She was _his_ daughter, after all. Only an idiot would not have realized that the latest paper included references to scientific works unavailable during his son-in-law's lifetime. Winston Hillsworth was not an idiotic man, for all his faults - which meant that he was being deliberately obtuse.

"In that case, Mary, there is only one thing to do." Last year, Penelope had burst into the room - every man was speechless when the woman in a mourning gown took one look at Winston Hillsworth, and deliberately turned her back on him. The sheer outrage against their beloved mentor was quite astonishing. She smiled at the memory. "I wonder if he is even planning on allowing me to present the paper," Penelope added. "Or if I will simply be making it available for the _gentlemen_ to read at their leisure."

Mary actually put a restraining hand on her arm. Penelope whipped her head to stare at the cook. "Please, Miss," Mary asked, her voice soft. "You weren't supposed to find out."

Her father was normally a mild-mannered man - until one of his orders was disobeyed. Penelope had inherited the temper, even though it was wholly unladylike of her to display it. It had not stopped her the previous year, but the look in Mary's eyes gave her pause. She smiled suddenly. "Does Bootsie still keep spare lanterns in the gardening shed?"

"Yes," the cook replied dubiously. "Lantern not working in your room, Miss?"

"Perfectly!" Penelope replied, smile slowly widening into a grin. "But I need a lantern _and_ a shovel. I'm assuming the shovels are still in the gardening shed."

"But without a lantern, won't you get lost?" Mary looked at her with concern in her eyes, which shocked Penelope to no end - she had trudged about the estate for years, regardless of weather conditions, and never once fell prey to misdirection.

"I thank you for your kind concern, Mary, but I believe you worry too much." Penelope laughed gently, opening the back door of the kitchen. The grounds spilled before her, and the old path wound down the hill behind the house. Moonlight spilled out over the path, illuminating the estate so brightly it seemed more like early morning. "There is enough light to see by."

Mary peered up into the sky. "A full moon is bad luck."

"No one knows the grounds better than I do." She smiled. "Good night, Mary."

"Good night, Miss Penelope."

Penelope turned on her heel, and strode out the back door down the old familiar path - old cobblestones with thyme winding its way through the cracks. The familiar scents rushing to meet her as her skirts brushed the aromatic flowers her mother had planted before she passed. To Penelope's left, the stones she and Verd had pulled from the woods one afternoon in their misguided attempt to rebuild Stonehenge were still standing; Father had never ordered the structure dismantled, and Bootsie had planted an herb garden around it every spring - as regular as clockwork.

It was good to be home.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

"Are you still upset about the girl in the carriage?" Samuel's voice broke into his thoughts.

Deane looked up from cleaning his rifle, pushing the cleaning rod and cloth through the barrel. Samuel pushed his glasses back on top of his nose - they always slipped down when Samuel was making adjustments to the pellet guns. The girl in question was a pretty brunette wearing a lavender mourning dress, one Mrs. Harcourt by name. Deane had hoped she would while away the hours between Dorsey and Westshire, but she showed little promise after several hours spent reading some damnable book. He chuckled.

"Deane? I understand rifles are quite fascinating to you - perhaps as an extension of your over-active manliness - but we are in the midst of a conversation."

He sighed. "She was but a diversion for the journey, Sammy." His brother was entirely too persistent. "A very pretty diversion," Deane added.

"Aren't they all?" His younger brother frowned. "And I must protest in one regard. You are aware that Sammy is a podgy twelve-year-old? The name is Samuel."

Deane grinned. "As you say, little brother." He set the cleaning rod down, peered into the barrel. "Done." He reached into the leather bag next to him. "How many silver bullets do we have?"

"Not enough. We will need to use the pellet guns, and hope the firebombs will slow down the werewolf long enough for you to get in a good shot."

"I am the master of good shots." He began loading the rifle with silver bullets, left over from their father's last altercation with a werewolf. The trail to John Winchester's whereabouts had led them back to Highchurch - a stone's throw from home, burned down so long ago by the Demon that haunted their days and turned their nights into nightmares. "Writing a letter to old Hillsworth was perfect, Samuel," Deane added, emphasizing the syllables in his brother's name. "We would never have gotten an invitation otherwise. Did you see the way that the butler stared at us when we entered the foyer?"

"Philistine." Samuel snorted. "He was staring at you."

"Then it is incredibly lucky for me that you graduated from Oxford, isn't it?" Deane continued, adjusting his belt holster - the one with the ivory-handled Colt .45 that was his first and favorite gun. It was loaded with silver bullets, in addition to his trusty rifle. "You get us into all the best parties." He frowned. "Although this one is dull."

"It's a private gathering," Samuel returned. "Winston Hillsworth holds it every year, inviting what he considers the finest minds to attend. I did not write him a letter, Deane. He invited me."

"I may be unhinged, Samuel, but does not your scientific practice eschew polite society." Deane smiled. "As do I, truth be told."

"Hillsworth is a Practitioner. This gathering is simply a smokescreen. The real work is done in the evenings, in the Billiards Room, after the staff retires for the night."

"Fascinating," Deane said. The whole notion of spending one's nights locked in a Billiards Room with other men, experimenting with inventions "modern science" was unprepared to explain seemed boring, on the whole. "I wonder where the servant girls retire."

Samuel chuckled. "You are incorrigible."

"Quite the contrary, my Oxford-educated little brother. I am quite corrigible. It is why I get into so much trouble." Deane rose to his feet, adjusting his braces and putting on his waistcoat - he twisted experimentally, and then frowned. "The new fiber you've been developing, Samuel, is too restricting and one sweats in it like a stuck pig." He took the waistcoat off, and slipped into his old pea coat. "Much better."

"You look slovenly." Samuel was slipping into his own waistcoat before taking off his glasses. "You really should be wearing a waistcoat," his little brother added with a grimace. He reached into his traveling case and pulled out the night goggles - the oddest monstrosity Samuel had yet created. The lenses alone stood a full two inches away from his eyes, but Deane could attest to their usefulness; Samuel would be able to see as clearly outside as he did during the day. Samuel Winchester was a genius, although his older brother was often hard pressed to tell him so. He pulled out another set for Deane.

He shook his head. Deane Winchester preferred to rely on his own senses while on the hunt. There was nothing like the feel of the ground underneath your fingers as you were trailing a beast, except perhaps the curve of a woman's shoulder as you kissed the sensitive hollows of her neck. _There has to be a woman somewhere on the grounds under the age of sixty._ A memory came forth, unbidden, from when he was a child. A little girl, younger than himself, playing on the path outside while their fathers spoke in the garden.

"Hillsworth has a daughter, does he not?" Deane looked at Samuel inquiringly.

Samuel nodded. "But she married some time ago, as I recall. We were invited to the wedding."

"Why didn't we attend?"

"You were in Budapest. Fighting gargoyles." Samuel flicked the switch on his night goggles, and began toggling the knobs on the side. "I was at Oxford."

Deane smiled at the memory - John Winchester, fighting gargoyles with a pistol in one hand and a cricket bat in the other. He could only stand and watch, awestruck, at his father's grace and determination on the hunt. "Our father is a legend."

"We need to find him, Deane." Samuel's voice dropped, and he sounded like a little boy - the same little boy whom Deane would entertain on carriage rides. "Every day he slips from us is another day we lose." Deane heard the names Samuel did not say. _Jessica Moore. Maxwell Leighton._ And perhaps others who shared Samuel's special gifts. "Do you believe that he's the one who has been sending us the letters?" his little brother asked.

Deane nodded. "I do. This is our destiny, Samuel."

Samuel stared at him, a frown underneath his night goggles. "I thought my destiny involved nightmares, and arriving too late to help those who need us."

"We save who we can." It was the Winchesters' blessing - and their curse.

"I know," Samuel returned. "I wish that we could save them all."

"As do I, Sammy." His little brother did not balk at the pet name, used when they were traveling through Europe looking for clues after their mother's death. Deane picked up his rifle. "I can make no promises for tomorrow, but tonight we are going to save someone's soul."

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Penelope struck out from the gardening shed, lantern in one hand and a shovel in the other. The air was cool against her skin - a slight tang that marked a change in the weather. London always smelled dirty. Never like the grounds at Highchurch, where the air was as fresh as the sky after a storm. Peter had always enjoyed walking the grounds with her during the rain, on those rare occasions they returned home from the city.

She sighed. It was strange how being home brought back memories of Peter, while walking every night through the house they shared for a year - the house where he died - only seemed to make the memories disappear. The mind worked in mysterious ways; Penelope was not a woman given to frivolous urges, yet tonight she had no other goal in mind than dig up the treasure box she and Vertiline had buried ten years ago.

Penelope set the shovel over her left shoulder, bracing it with her hand as she walked. If memory served, the treasure box was buried in the midst of the old Faerie Grove - a circle of oak trees someone had planted a long time ago near the stream. They had marked the tree where they buried it with ribbons, along with a carving of their initials.

With any luck, she'd still be able to find it.

There was a howl in the distance, a lonely sound. Penelope cocked her head. _Wild dogs?_ They were not unheard of in the country, although Westshire was growing increasingly cosmopolitan - at least by the standards of Penelope's childhood. She held the lantern more firmly in her right hand, trudging resolutely across the field towards the stream.

Moonlight shone down into the Faerie Grove, through a slight mist - a storm was coming. Nights such as this reminded her of the girl who would name a circle of trees, and Penelope smiled a bit wistfully at the memory. Vertiline had never lost that innocent sense of wonder. On the other hand, Verd was a horrid flirt and something of a featherhead. Fortunately, Penelope was exceedingly practical in matters of the heart, guiding her young cousin through a successful London season with nary an emotional scratch.

Francis Templeton was an excellent match for Vertiline.

There was a rustle behind her in the bushes near the stream. Penelope whirled and watched a small rabbit rush from underneath the brush, looking for a new hiding place. "I am jumping at rabbits," she said softly, her voice sounding harsh in the stillness that surrounded her. _Mary can still work me into a frenzy with her superstitious stories. A full moon is not bad luck._ Penelope shook her head, and then checked on the lantern. It was secure from the rain.

"Rabbits be damned," she added, traipsing into the circle of trees. If memory served, the tree was on the highest quarter. Penelope raised the lantern and smiled as she walked in that direction - there was one old ribbon still hanging off the limb of the tallest tree, wavering in the breeze. Its height was most likely why they had chosen it in the first place; Verd believed that the taller the tree, the more powerful its faery - at least, perhaps, when Vertiline was twelve. She stepped forward, touching the "VL" her cousin had scratched into the tree's trunk, right next to Penelope's more forceful initials.

The treasure box was buried five steps away from their initials. Penelope set her back to the tree, and took five steps forward - she had not gained any height in the last ten years, doomed to a short stature; her calculations - though approximate - would still apply. She wrinkled her nose; there was something to be said for being closer to the ground, all protestations regarding lack of stature aside.

Penelope stamped one foot on the ground, feeling for the slight bump. She doubted it would still be in place - it had been ten years, after all. The soil had most likely settled due to the vagaries of wind and rain. But there it was - the slight lump the metal box made underneath the grass. She smiled again, setting the lantern beside her. She set the shovel against the grass and kicked downward, feeling the tap of the shovel's end against the box.

_We certainly did not bury it deeply._

She dug swiftly as the chilling mist swirled around her; it would start raining soon. Setting the shovel on the ground beside her, Penelope knelt - using her hands to dig the remainder of the soil away, and pulling out the old metal box she and Vertiline had used to store their greatest of treasures: several thimbles, tokens of Verd's many assignations - even at the tender age of twelve - with young gentlemen in the area, and feverish poems written to the objects of her cousin's affections.

The box came out from the ground easily, with a sucking sound that Penelope did not expect.

_Curious._

She filed the idea away, an experiment for a later time - the transfer of volume and mass from one state to another.

She was just about to open the box when a howl ripped through the air, much closer than it had been just moments before. Penelope jumped, grabbing the shovel quickly and turning towards the noise. A twig snapped on the ground behind her, and she whirled to face the noise. A lanky figure wearing a great overcoat - and the strangest contraption on its head - stumbled into her lantern's light.

Penelope braced herself, shovel outstretched in her hands. "That is close enough, sir!" She was giving the man the benefit of the doubt simply by assuming that he was a gentleman. _What type of man wanders throughout the countryside at night wearing that - thing - on his head? An escapee from an asylum?_ She frowned, as the figure inched forward, and pulled the shovel behind her shoulder as she would a cricket bat. Penelope raised her voice, crying, "I am armed, sir, and rest assured, I will not refrain from the use of force. Desist in your approach this instant!"

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Mrs. Harcourt was a plucky young widow - Deane would grant that as a positive assessment of her character. However, that still did not explain why the woman had ventured out late at night, in the midst of a brewing rainstorm, simply to dig up something on the night of the full moon. There were some answers man was simply not meant to know, and this was one of them. Yet the way she swung the shovel as though she was playing cricket bordered on endearing - if Deane Winchester was the type of man who found plucky young widows to be such.

Which he was not.

"Mrs. Harcourt!" Samuel's voice came out as a whisper, his hands held before him in a universal gesture of peace. "I am not going to hurt you."

The shovel dropped slightly, and Deane heard the incredulity in the young woman's voice. "Samuel?" If possible, her voice actually increased in volume. Mrs. Harcourt must have driven her husband to distraction - bellowing about the house in that sharp tone as he tried to go peacefully about his business. "Samuel Winchester?" she added.

"Lower your voice, Mrs. Harcourt. You're in danger!"

"That is obvious, sir!" The frown in her voice was palpable. Perhaps she would have been more kindly disposed to his younger brother if she could see the large wolf - big and black in the moonlight - that was tracking her not ten feet behind, slipping between the mist. Samuel was plainly trying to help her. "But you are a lunatic if you believe I'm lowering my voice simply to stop calling attention to you," the widow added.

_Insufferable woman._

Deane shook his head. She was pretty, however - even in the moonlight, there were softer glints in her dark brown hair. He suspected her eyes were flashing as she confronted Samuel, green flecked with gold sparks. It was her eyes that had attracted him in the first place - her eyes that made Deane Winchester wonder what they looked like when she was laughing.

_Or what happens when Mrs. Harcourt is lying breathless underneath you._

"My brother and I want to help you." Samuel's voice was calm. He was trying to be reasonable. Normally, his voice alone was enough to calm even the most frightened of those the Winchesters saved.

But Samuel Winchester's particular gifts of persuasion apparently held little sway over angry widows. "That scoundrel is not even here!" she cried. Mrs. Harcourt swung her shovel around, almost clipping his younger brother across the chest. "I said stand back, Samuel Winchester!" Her body twisted with the force of her swing, and the shovel went flying from her hands - landing past Samuel with a dull thud.

Deane leaned into her spin, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her out of harm's way as the wolf behind her charged the spot where she had been. "I have her!" Deane cried. "Shoot the wolf!"

"I cannot see the wolf!" Samuel returned. "Her lantern is interfering with my night goggles."

"Damn you, woman!" Deane snapped, arm still about her waist as he began scanning the perimeter of the lantern's glow for any sign of the wolf's movement. It was a particularly tricky bastard - apparently, the creature it was when not in wolf form was clever in the extreme. "What possessed you to ramble through the countryside in the middle of the night?"

"That is none of your business, Mr. Winchester," the widow hissed. She turned in his arm to look at him, green eyes flashing just as he thought they would. "And I must insist that you remove your arm from my waist, or else I will be forced to assume drastic measures." Mrs. Harcourt frowned. "You are not even wearing a waistcoat, sir." One finger touched the buckle on his braces.

"A scolding I would take with more vigor if the woman in question was wearing a corset." Deane grinned, mustering some of his rakish charm - a feat, under the circumstances.

Mrs. Harcourt's mouth opened, slightly, and she looked as though she was going to expound upon his nature. _Vociferously._ Deane Winchester, however, knew how to handle a woman, and the damnable Mrs. Harcourt was a woman - despite her exasperating inclination to outline her companions' impropriety. He leaned down quickly, mouth against hers as he tightened his grip around her waist. She opened to him with a sigh, returning his kiss with as much spirit as she possessed.

In point of fact, Mrs. Harcourt - proper though she seemed - had the mouth of a wanton; she performed acts within seconds that an untried girl - his usual quarry - would never think to try. Deane's shortsightedness astonished him; why had he never thought to explore an assignation with a young and pretty widow? Particularly if the widow was as young and pretty as Mrs. Harcourt, kissing him with a fervor so much more pleasurable than sweetness.

Mrs. Harcourt moaned softly, shifting in the crook of his arm. She brought down a rather large - and, as he would later learn, muddy - boot upon his instep. "Bugger me!" Deane cried. The force of her blow against him was enough to loosen his hold around her trim waist, and she stepped back with a triumphant gleam in her green eyes. Deane saw another flash - a wolf's eyes - in the shadows of the lantern's light behind her.

"Be careful, Deane!" Samuel must have spotted the wolf as well. It sat on its haunches, teeth gleaming as it watched Mrs. Harcourt with hungry eyes. He could appreciate the sentiment.

Deane Winchester never backed down from a challenge.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Penelope had never been so insulted in her entire life. Even her father's casual disregard of her scholastic pursuits paled in comparison to the callous disdain Deane Winchester laid upon her feet. The cad had kissed her! The unscrupulous bounder sent his madcap younger sibling to distract her, and then snatched her into his arms simply so that Deane Winchester could have his way with her. Her! A widow still in a mourning dress. Had the scoundrel no shame?

_Oh God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place._

Or, at the very least, Penelope Harcourt would be throwing Deane Winchester a gauntlet - right across his smug and self-satisfied countenance.

Penelope settled for smashing his foot with her walking boot. She glared at him, watching the confused expression which crossed his otherwise - damnably - handsome face as Deane Winchester released her from his arms, his true colors revealed as he screamed his loathsome epitaph.

She brought one hand to her lips as his little brother cried, "Be careful, Deane!" Penelope felt the pressure of Deane Winchester's cursed lips upon her own, coupled with an excitement she had not felt in years - even Peter had never kissed her with such forceful abandon.

For that, Deane Winchester would pay dearly.

"You take too many liberties, Mr. Winchester," she snarled.

Hazel eyes flickered in her direction, but Deane Winchester's expression was grim. "Do not move, Mrs. Harcourt. You _are_ in danger." The damn man was watching something behind her - his mad younger brother, no doubt. "And please, for the love of God, lower your voice!" he added. "You are giving me a headache!"

"I will do no such thing until you explain to me what you are doing on my father's grounds," Penelope returned forcefully. Did the Winchesters show such coldhearted indifference to everyone they met, luring unsuspecting young women into their arms as they capered frantically across the countryside carrying firearms? Green eyes narrowed.

_Firearms?_

Deane Winchester's blasted mouth spread into a smile. "Hunting."

A large popping sound erupted behind her.

"Damn and blast!" Samuel Winchester cried. Penelope twirled in place to face him. The youngest Winchester was pointing the strangest-looking gun - something which could have been more adequately described by Jules Verne - at the largest wolf that Penelope had ever seen. This was no mere understatement; in body mass alone, the wolf easily weighed as much as a normal human male and it was glaring at her with a preternatural intelligence in its eyes. "The pellet gun is jammed!" Samuel added.

"Deane Winchester is a master of improvisation!" the eldest Winchester cried, flashing another grin in Penelope's direction. He danced around her, grabbing the lantern next to her right foot – throwing it at the wolf with a mighty heave. "Bullseye," he added, as the glass cracked and oil mixed with fire on the wolf's coat.

"Are you mad, sir?" Penelope screamed. It was a precious specimen, and belonged in a museum.

"Confound it, woman!" Deane Winchester spared a glance in her direction. "We are trying to save your life." He pulled a rifle from a holster off his back - Penelope had never seen a man wearing such a contraption - and took aim at her.

The man was insane. She had read stories about killers such as this, mentally unhinged men who preyed upon unsuspecting women, but Penelope would never have believed either Winchester fell into that category - even with Samuel sporting that infernal apparatus on his head. Penelope's breath caught as Deane Winchester forcibly grabbed her by the arm and moved her aside.

Another howl ripped through her head, and Penelope realized that the earlier lamentation had come from the wolf. Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope glimpsed its burning body upon the grass and she turned to look full upon it. A piteous whimper erupted from the poor creature as its body began to shiver. Her eyes widened - it must have been a trick of the moonlight and the fire, for its skin appeared to be rippling madly from the inside. The wolf was dying.

And the Winchesters were hunting it for sport.

"Please," she said, trying to catch Samuel's eye. Those strange goggles were looking right at her. Deane Winchester was cocking his gun at the creature, a grim look on his face, and he stalked forward. "Let it die in peace."

"I can assure you, Mrs. Harcourt, that the creature will do so," Samuel returned, in a voice as calm as the one he had employed upon her before.

The wolf howled again and jumped to its feet, yellow eyes looking straight into hers. Penelope screamed - the beast was bipedal, loping towards her with an unnatural gait. By the look in its preternatural eyes, she knew that she was doomed. The beast was going to take her in front of Deane and Samuel Winchester. There was nothing she could do - the creature was moving too quickly for her to react - and she closed her eyes, prepared to meet her cruel fate. _Peter…_

"Now, Samuel," Deane Winchester roared. As soon as the words erupted from his mouth, Penelope found herself lying on wet grass. She opened her eyes, only to find herself staring Samuel's apparatus full in its mechanical face.

The crack of Deane Winchester's rifle brought Penelope to her senses. She pushed Samuel with as much strength as she could muster, and rolled out from underneath him - just in time to see the wolf-man pull back its head and wail its dying lament. Blood poured from its chest in the moonlight, and the thing slumped to the ground.

Penelope's breathing seemed rushed, even to her own ears - acting in counterpoint to the echo of the gunfire. She rose shakily to her feet. Samuel Winchester's arm was on her shoulder, while his older brother kicked the wolf-man's hand with the toe of his shoe. "Is it dead, Mr. Winchester?" she asked. It was the only question she could muster amongst the scramble within her head.

_Please, let it be dead._

His swaggering smirk answered her question. "Most assuredly so, Mrs. Harcourt." He looked at his brother. "Perhaps you should escort her to the house before…" Deane Winchester's voice slowed to a stop.

The creature's hand started to shimmer - as though the fur upon it was dispersing completely into the air - and a human hand appeared in its place. Penelope shrugged Samuel's hand off her shoulder, and walked forward slowly to stand next to his older brother. She felt the blood draining from her face as an arm followed the hand, and then the chest attached to the arm. Whatever the thing had become, it was human once.

And it was reverting to its original form right before their eyes.

Penelope's stomach turned, and she looked away - right into Deane Winchester's eyes. The man seemed tired, and the smile on his face was the first genuine look he had given her since alighting into the carriage earlier that morning. If he had smiled at her in that fashion, perhaps Penelope would not have read George Eliot - Penelope did not even _like_ George Eliot, but she was returning the novel to Father at Verd's request. She shook her head, once - hoping to clear her thoughts. But she caught a glimpse of the dead man's hair out of the corner of her eye.

_Oh, my poor Mary!_

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Mrs. Harcourt made a strangled noise, falling to her knees beside the naked body. "Bootsie!" she cried.

"Bugger," Deane muttered. _She's recognized the poor bastard._ If only Samuel had managed to make off with her sooner, before the body began reverting to its human form.

Samuel's voice was soft. "Was he a friend of yours, Mrs. Harcourt?"

"He was Mary's son." The sorrow in Mrs. Harcourt's voice was palpable. "He watched over Verd and I while we were growing up. I never thought to see him…" Her voice trailed off, and she tried to touch the dead man's arm. Mrs. Harcourt managed one quick tap, pulling her hand back quickly as the lifeless body rocked against the grass.

"Mary?" Samuel asked.

"The cook," Deane replied calmly. The one who had met them upon their arrival; the old woman knew they were not simply at Highchurch for the scientific conference - Samuel's questions had been too pointed, and she asked for their help. To save him, she said. Her voice quivering. _Please save my son._ "The one who…"

"Ah."

Deane placed his rifle back into its back holster, and leaned down to encircle Mrs. Harcourt's waist with his hands. It was odd what the mind registered after a life and death situation. Mrs. Harcourt was well-proportioned - curves where they should be, no aesthete tendencies - and her hips dared to be caressed underneath her mourning gown; a thought which might have brought a smile to his face were it not for her gentle weeping. "We should leave, Mrs. Harcourt." He did not remove his hands, hoping to steady her. "Samuel will take care of your friend."

"But Mary -" The widow's voice caught in her throat. "You do not understand. She tried to warn me!" Mrs. Harcourt lowered her eyes. "How do I tell her that between the three of us, we killed her son?"

"We are sorrier than you know, Mrs. Harcourt," Samuel said. "But you had nothing to do with this." He took off the night goggles as he spoke to her. His little brother smiled wanly. "Please, allow Deane to escort you into the house."

Deane removed his hands from her waist, and offered the widow his arm. Mrs. Harcourt's knees buckled underneath her weight after three steps, and she pitched backwards. Deane grabbed her swiftly, her pale, tear-stained face gazing up into his. Green eyes, flecked with gold, glittered in the moonlight. Mrs. Harcourt's hair had fallen during the struggle, and a thick coil of dark brown curls brushed gently against his hand.

"You have my thanks, Mr. Winchester," her voice came softly. "But if you think this mitigates your earlier beha - " Mrs. Harcourt's eyes suddenly fluttered, and her head fell backwards. The damnable woman had fainted in his arms.

_I'll be buggered!_

* * *

A/N:

This story brought to you in part by a love of Victoriana, a picture of Jensen Ackles in suspenders, and much active egging on by the lovely wenchpixie.

The world is a stylized version of the Victorian era – more "the world as the Victorians wished it to be" versus actual history. In that respect, Jules Verne is as much to blame as I am.

The decision to use more period versions of the boys' names was deliberate – particularly with Dean. (For the curious, I was able to date the use of "Deane" as a first name to 1623 AD.)

Penelope's experiment is based on one performed by Charles Darwin and his son.

Mourning during the Victorian era was structured – books on etiquette had entire sections on the mourning rituals you were required to observe based on your relationship to the deceased. Women who survived their husbands had the most rigid rules imposed upon them, based on three different levels of mourning. Penelope is in the latter part of the third and final stage, known as "half mourning." She is allowed to wear some color (mostly variant shades of light purple) so long as it is still trimmed in black, and has been reintroduced into society for most social activities. Because she was young when her husband died, Penelope would have been required to observe the longest time frames for each mourning period or else be considered a "loose woman." By my reckoning, she has been in mourning for almost four years.

And some terminology, thanks to wenchpixie:

Bracers are suspenders


	2. In Which the Investigation Begins

_**By Gaslight**_

Twenty-two years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home. Since that day, a bereaved John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick upon his family; raising his sons to follow in his footsteps.

Armed with Samuel's inventions and Deane's uncanny ability to bring down any prey, the brothers Winchester travel through Great Britain and Europe, following clues they receive in the form of mysterious letters — and Samuel's disturbing visions.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. Likewise, the idea of the weapons they use owes more to Jules Verne than to my own devising. And while Mr. Winchester's peculiar mode of transport has not yet made an appearance, its particular execution also does not belong to me. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, Samuel Winchester, Penelope Harcourt, Mary, OFC (Vertiline Lucas), OFC (Mrs. Jennings), OMC (Francis Templeton)

Pairings (Overall): Deane/OFCs, Samuel/OFC

Rating (Overall): M

Rating: T (Naughty Victorian Language, Mildly Graphic Scenes)

Summary: Less than fourty-eight hours after her cousin leaves Fillmont, Vertiline Lucas schemes to follow Penelope to Highchurch. She is wholly unprepared when the Sight comes upon her, and she has a vision of her cousin, a bespectacled boy and the fearsome monster that is chasing them.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

* * *

**Chapter Two: In Which the Investigation Begins, and the Past Comes Back to Haunt Them All**

Vertiline Lucas calmly placed her spoon next to her bowl of sherbet, and took a deep breath. If Mrs. Jennings made one more impertinent comment regarding her many suitors within the presence of Francis Templeton, Vertiline was going to launch herself across the table and throttle the old woman - good manners be damned.

Mrs. Jennings was unendurable. Only yesterday morning, she and Vertiline had made their goodbyes to Penelope at the carriage post, and already Vertiline was planning violence against the old gossipmonger - even if it required the sacrifice of her dessert spoon. Whatever demon possessed Penelope to place Vertiline's reputation in the care of an ancient nosy parker was a cruel one, indeed.

Perhaps Penelope had chosen her particular replacement as a form of punishment. Vertiline would not put such an action past her cousin; it was not unlike the time Penelope coolly plotted revenge after Vertiline convinced Roger Adams to ask for every dance on her card. But Vertiline knew of nothing she had done to deserve the likes of Mrs. Jennings within the last decade, let alone the last several weeks. Penelope had wanted her to attend the conference with her - actually sign the name 'Vertiline Lucas' next to that wretched task she performed. After discovering that, it had been simple to make the choice between spending two weeks with her friends or locked in the Billiards Room watching Uncle Winston's stuffy acquaintances discuss scientific things that would bore Vertiline to tears within the first five minutes.

Boredom was a state which did not generally bode well for Vertiline's companions under the best of circumstances, but most especially so when she was dealing with the amorous advances of Uncle Winston's circle. Last year, there was a brazen young man who refused Vertiline's negative responses to his advances until she jabbed his toe with her umbrella. It was inevitable that Vertiline remain in London this year, awaiting Penelope's return, and she had been looking forward to two weeks of genteel excitement that did not require her to engage in all manner of ills for "the betterment of Man" - such as that repulsive occupation in the rookery.

The sweet dreams of freedom were vanquished when Penelope announced that Mrs. Jennings had agreed to act as Vertiline's chaperone in Penelope's absence. The argument that Penelope had been living without a chaperone since she was twenty - and Vertiline had passed that age by two years - fell on deaf ears. Her cousin simply rolled her eyes and pointed to the black trim on the sleeve of her gown.

Vertiline sighed - an act which, unfortunately, garnered the attention of Mrs. Jennings. "Are you unwell, Miss Lucas?" the old woman asked, beady eyes peering at her from underneath the most ridiculous hat a woman could wear, all feathers and flowers. "Should I send for Alistair to bring you something to drink?"

"I thank you for your concern, Mrs. Jennings." Vertiline smiled at the woman as sweetly as she could manage. "I simply miss my cousin." She neglected to add that were her cousin standing in front of her at that moment, Penelope Harcourt would be suitably remonstrated for the decision to make Mrs. Jennings a temporary guardian to anyone - let alone a beloved companion of five years. There were stories Vertiline Lucas could divulge.

"I should think so," Mrs. Jennings replied. "Did you not grow up together?" The old woman did not wait for Vertiline's answer, but she turned to Templeton animatedly. "It's a tale as old as time, Mr. Templeton; the beautiful cousin poor as a church mouse taken in by the older house, nursed by her scornfully plain cousin. Mrs. Smith told me that Mrs. Harcourt spent more time in _boy's_ clothes; the first time she wore a dress willingly was the evening after she met that poor man she married."

"Mrs. Jennings!" Vertiline's voice was louder than she had anticipated. "I am neither poor nor is my cousin scornfully plain. Need I remind you that you are staying in my cousin's home?" It was one thing for Vertiline to be distressed at her cousin's antics; criticism from an old woman was something altogether different - acutely from one Penelope called a friend.

The old woman sniffed. "She grew into her looks, my dear Miss Lucas, whereas you have always been beautiful." She smiled at the poor man unfortunate enough to be sitting across from her. "Do you not think that Miss Lucas is beautiful, sir?"

Francis Templeton graced Vertiline with a smile. "More flowers I noted, yet I none could see but sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee."

Vertiline deftly pulled the napkin from her lap, coughing delicately into it to hide her blush - at least from Templeton's view. The man was besotted. She had vowed to marry him by the end of the year. He was handsome, with his Romanesque nose and dancing blue eyes - hair almost as blonde as her own. His taste in fashion was exquisite. Templeton's intellectual pursuits well-suited her own, which was to state that he would never require her to gather seeds in a god-forsaken rookery. It was an excellent match; Penelope was correct on that score. Even Uncle Winston approved of the union.

"Is there something we can do, Miss Lucas, to cease your sighing?" The look Francis Templeton gave her was downright wicked.

_An excellent match._

"There is one thing," Vertiline replied. "I wish to go home."

"To Highchurch Manor?" Mrs. Jennings was appalled. "Surely you must be joking! I arranged two weeks of socializing, my dear girl. You are in sore need of introduction into the better circles of London society - not those prim intellectuals Mrs. Harcourt invites for dinners." The old woman shook her head. "Silly girl. She'll never remarry if she continues associating with academics."

"Quite right." Templeton nodded. "But would a visit to Highchurch make you happy, Miss Lucas?"

Vertiline nodded. "And we would not be my uncle's only guests. He has asked several of his acquaintances up this weekend. I suspect Penelope will be introduced to them." She smiled at Mrs. Jennings. "You will, of course, assent to attend. My uncle is a lonely man." A part of her felt poorly for what she was doing to her uncle, but he had certainly done _something_ within his life to earn Mrs. Jennings' attention.

"Of course, my dear! We shall leave first thing in the morning!" Mrs. Jennings looked so pleased by the invitation that Vertiline made no attempt to hide her smile. "What kind of man is your uncle? I only know of him by reputation."

Vertiline steeled her features, making her expression as innocent as she could manage. "He's a scientist," she replied, blue eyes blinking at Mrs. Jennings ingenuously. "He taught Biology at Oxford until his retirement several years ago." The look on the old bat's face when Mrs. Jennings registered the idea was worth the boredom the next two weeks would bring.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Samuel thanked the young maid who showed him the way to Mrs. Harcourt's room with a quick smile and a nod; she could not have been more than eighteen, which meant that his brother would unerringly find her within the next twelve hours. He could only shake his head ruefully at that thought.

Mrs. Harcourt's rooms were located in the southern wing of Highchurch Manor, an area that looked all but abandoned. Apparently, the widow relished her privacy - the halls were dimmed, and none of the usual chatter of a busy household could be heard. According to the maid, the wing was all but closed when Hillsworth's wife had died; Mrs. Harcourt had assumed her mother's suite when she was a girl. Samuel had thought the maid a bit too forthcoming with this information, but she was young and there was nothing untoward in what she said.

Mrs. Harcourt, as serious as she had seemed, was a sentimentalist - a fact which might assist in the accomplishment of his set task.

Samuel took a deep breath. He had been dreading this moment since the widow had fainted the night before, but he was a Winchester - well-used to seeing a woman's wrath after his older brother's exploits. Unfortunately, not being his older brother, Samuel was not well-used to actually dealing with it.

_With any luck, she won't even remember what happened._

He knocked lightly, waiting for several seconds. Samuel breathed a sigh of relief, turning to leave - but then there was a slight cough from behind the door, and it opened slowly. Mrs. Harcourt's face, as pale as it had been the night before, peered out and she frowned before looking up to see his face. "Mr. Samuel?" The widow's green eyes glittered. "Have you come to accost me with another strange contraption, or have you decided to add your own twist on your brother's unwanted attentions?" She smiled when Samuel's eyes widened behind his spectacles.

"I have actually come to check on your state, Mrs. Harcourt." He coughed into his hand politely. _The woman is a hellspawn._ It was no wonder Deane had spent a full hour railing against her upon his return to the room. "And to relay my condolences for your friend."

The woman held the door open for him. She was wearing a grey mourning dress, a shade that washed all color out of everything but her eyes. Samuel blinked - they were the most curious green. Mrs. Harcourt's hair had been severely constrained as well. "I trust that you have had breakfast, sir?" Mrs. Harcourt's hand waited near the bell.

"Of course."

"Then please, make yourself comfortable." Mrs. Harcourt gestured to a small group of overstuffed chairs near a fireplace, several glass cases with butterflies set above the hearth. The door to the back room - presumably where the woman slept - was closed. Bookcases covered an entire wall, and there was a table with several animal skeletons on it in various states of composition. There was even a small desk with a microscope and other accouterments of a scientific nature. She noticed his gaze, and smiled softly. "You are aware that I was married to Peter Harcourt, are you not?"

Samuel waited until she seated herself in the chair nearest to the fireplace. "I was not, although I should have recognized your name as his assistant. I've read several of his papers, including the one you edited last year. So you have kept his things?"

"Yes," she replied shortly, her eyes glittering at him again. "In his study at Fillmont. This is my room, Mr. Samuel. I _am_ Winston Hillsworth's daughter." Mrs. Harcourt's entire body stiffened in her chair, and she had the aura of one deeply insulted. It was a mistake that Samuel Winchester would not make again.

"Mrs. Harcourt - " He felt the desire to apologize, but she suddenly smiled at him sadly and shook her head. Samuel coughed. "So you are a Naturalist in your own right? I had not known."

"I am a woman, sir," the widow replied, "but I am in complete possession of all my faculties despite last night's proceedings."

"The werewolf?"

Mrs. Harcourt's expression turned faintly ill. "I was referring to fainting in your brother's arms." She shook her head. "I completely disagree with your hypothesis. Why would you assume that Bootsie was a werewolf, sir? Those are figments of our imaginations. Children's tales we tell to scare ourselves."

Samuel shook his head. "My dear Mrs. Harcourt, though it pains me to say it, nothing is farther from the truth." He leaned forward in his chair, hands on both knees. "The world is full of supernatural occurrences, if one knows how to look for them."

"And you and your older brother know how to look?" The widow looked skeptical, her hands folded primly in her lap as Mrs. Harcourt cocked her head to appraise him with her green eyes. "Could not Bootsie have simply been wandering the countryside, a victim of rabies, accosting passers-by in a wolf's pelt?" She twisted her mouth wryly before Samuel could answer her question. "I suppose not. That sounds even sillier than the existence of werewolves."

"My brother and I are deeply grieved for your loss."

"Your brother broke an oil lantern on the body of one of my oldest friends," the widow returned. Mrs. Harcourt sighed. "But, in fairness, he did so attempting to save my life." She sat up suddenly in her chair. "I do not suppose you have attempted to catalogue these creatures you find. What have you done to determine their origin?"

"Surely the existence of knowledge outside the norm is no surprise to you, Mrs. Harcourt," Samuel replied. She was Winston Hillsworth's daughter - and all that entailed. "Your father did invite you to his Practitioner gathering."

"My father invited me to his scientific conference," the widow replied, "And I will consider myself lucky if he allows me an opportunity to present my - " Mrs. Harcourt shook her head. "My husband's work."

Samuel smiled. "There's no need to be cautious, Mrs. Harcourt. I am a Practitioner myself." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "The strange contraptions? I create them. I'm currently working on the specifications for a horseless carriage."

Mrs. Harcourt abruptly rose to her feet, striding away from the fireplace. She began pacing back and forth, her boots making sharp sounds against the wooden floor of her suite. The widow whirled on Samuel, her eyes wild. "You are a villain, sir! It is bad enough you bring werewolves onto my family's grounds, but now you would have me believe my father is a madman?"

"I - " Samuel felt the color drain from his face when he saw tears standing in Mrs. Harcourt's eyes. "I am sorry, good lady. I simply assumed you knew. As you said, you are Winston Hillsworth's daughter."

"You are serious?" The widow fell into the nearest chair, skirt flouncing. "But of course you are serious. Any fool can see that plainly enough, Mr. Samuel."

"It is a tradition passed down from Practitioner to Practitioner. They are very select in their choice."

"Of course they are." Mrs. Harcourt's voice was tired. "That type of knowledge could be dangerous in the wrong hands." She looked as though she wanted to say more, her skin gone even paler than when Samuel had first entered the room. The widow started at the sharp knock on the door. "Please, remain seated."

Mrs. Harcourt crossed the room, and opened the door quickly. Deane pushed his way into the room past the widow. "Samuel!" His brother's voice was hard. "We have a serious problem."

"A pleasant morning to you, Mr. Winchester. Please, feel free to enter my room any time you wish. I would enjoy it ever so much better if you would do so unannounced in the future." Samuel held his breath; had Mrs. Harcourt looked at him in such a fashion, he would have withered in the heat of her stare.

"This is Winchester business," Deane rolled his eyes, pulling on his collar.

"This is my home," Mrs. Harcourt returned. "You would do well to remember that, sir."

"A home you would no longer enjoy, were it not for my brother and I," his older brother retorted. He raised both eyebrows. "Are you coming, Samuel? They found another victim last evening. The body is at the mortician's in town."

"Then I will take you there." Mrs. Harcourt grabbed a large black carpet bag from the long table behind the chaise lounge, and then walked past Deane into the hallway.

"Absolutely not!" Deane's nostrils flared as he and Mrs. Harcourt glared at each other. "Are you insane, woman? You would only get in the way." Hazel eyes began flickering around the room, focusing on what must have been Mrs. Harcourt's work table. "Skeletons? You _are_ insane! Samuel, we're leaving."

"I am a scientist, Mr. Winchester. I could be of use to you in examining the body." The widow smiled sweetly at him, green eyes sparkling. "And I am friends with Mr. Norman."

"Mr. Norman?" Samuel asked.

"The mortician." Mrs. Harcourt tapped the carpet bag against her leg. "And you know my husband's reputation, Mr. Samuel. I would be beneficial to your investigation."

Samuel shrugged his shoulders apologetically at Deane. The woman made sense. She was trained in a scientific discipline for which he had no experience, and Mrs. Harcourt had local contacts within Westshire - both assets to their present inquiry. "We would appreciate your kind assistance." Deane looked as though he wanted nothing more than to throttle his younger brother.

"Excellent! Shall we go?" The widow turned on her heel, striding down the hall. "Please shut the door behind you, Mr. Samuel." Mrs. Harcourt stopped and turned to look over her shoulder. "Do close your mouth, Mr. Winchester. I would not wish you to swallow any insects during our walk to town. I am fond of them."

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

_Penelope must be punished, and I do not mean this in jest, dear friend. My cousin has pushed me to actions most excruciating: five hours in a carriage with Mrs. Jennings. I tell you this true: as surely as I am sitting here in this unendurable agony, it is my sincerest hope that Penelope will suffer and suffer greatly. One day, and hopefully soon, Penelope will be forced to undergo the piercing anguish of horrendous company within closed quarters._

As I write this, Mrs. Jennings has decided to regale poor Templeton with stories of her insufferable daughter and equally supercilious husband. I remember the last time I had the displeasure of dining with Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Mills. Mrs. Mills spent hours going on about her child - how wonderful he was, the apple of his father's eyes - and every time she mentioned this, Mr. Mills looked unwell. They are entirely too silly to be breeding.

At least Templeton and I will have a brain to share between us, which is more than I can say for most couples.

I attempted to pass the time by taking a nap. Uncle Winston's favorite pastime brought with it a lesson well learned: when you are asleep, the folly of others cannot bother you. Even Mrs. Jennings' droning about the wonders of her offspring could not keep blessed sleep from overtaking me. I leaned my head delicately against Templeton's shoulder - for Mrs. Jennings, unlike my cousin, allowed us to sit on the same side of the carriage.

And, as it often does when I am asleep, the Sight came upon me.

I could scarcely believe what I beheld, dearest of friends. Normally my dreams are of simple things - parties, the appropriate response to a conversation, or the right circumstance to find one a husband. But this dream frightened me in ways that few have. It seemed so terribly real!

And it was horrible.

My poor cousin, running through what I assumed to be the woods near Highchurch under a nearly full moon - the wind whispering through the leaves as she fled. And Penelope was terrified. I have never known her to be such - even after finding Peter's poor broken body, those ghastly wounds at his neck. Even when Aunt Priscilla passed, Penelope was always brave. So you surely understand, cherished one, how terrifying a prospect this was for me to see.

For Good or Ill, my cousin was not alone. A young man, wearing the most curiously fashioned waistcoat and spectacles that marked him as an adherent to my cousin's Calling, was pulling her behind him - his hand firmly gripping hers. He was not terrified, which I found most curious. He was handsome, in a bookish way - far more handsome than Peter ever was - and he was obviously concerned for my cousin's welfare.

Between you and I, friend, even my Templeton is not so handsome as this young man. My cousin's taste - for surely, this must be a suitor of some sort, or why would she have been with him walking in the moonlight - has definitely improved.

I only caught momentary glimpses of the creature which chased them - a large, wooly beast covered with tufts of black fur. Eyes that sparked yellow and orange as it chased, saliva dripping from its jaws - drops making a hissing noise as they touched the grass. Had I not known better, I would have thought those drops were acidic! Having watched Penelope's experiments on decomposition, I would know that sound.

The creature overtook them, swiping at the young man with a claw-covered paw. Penelope, the sister of my soul, screamed as the poor boy's body fell to the grass.

Apparently, I awoke screaming along with her. Mrs. Jennings was absolutely mortified by the experience, spending the next thirty minutes jumping at every noise we heard outside of the carriage. Normal noises - clucking chickens had her shrieking for a full five minutes until she regained control of herself. Templeton, the good-natured boy that he is, was most conciliatory to the old bat - even going so far as to offer to contact the coachman and inquire upon some water.

I fear that stopping this Vision will fall to me, and I will stop it single-handedly if I must. Penelope - even if I can describe the young man perfectly to her - would never believe me; she gave up on 'childish things' the afternoon her mother died. I do not even think she sees any longer, my cousin who used to dance with faeries in a grove of trees older than the rest of the countryside. As much as I love my uncle, he ruined her. There are days I dearly long for my cousin to come back to me. I love the woman she became, but I miss the girl who would laugh with me.

So I, alone, shoulder the burden of our mothers' blessings.

A thought which I would ponder with more seriousness if I could, but the insatiable Mrs. Jennings has now begun flirting with Templeton. And he appears to be returning in kind - humouring Mrs. Jennings will surely keep her spirits somewhat in check, making the journey likewise more comfortable for Templeton and me. To that end, I looked in vain for a book within my reticule - I would surely strangle the gossip left solely to my own devices. Happily, I have found you, dear journal.

The truly mortifying prospect in this entire engagement is that we still have four hours on the road before we reach Dorsey.

Oh Cruel Fate! If there is anything beyond fickleness in your nature, please send my cousin a tormentor as insufferable as Mrs. Jennings! At least until she learns her lesson and properly apologizes to me for leaving me with the crazy woman. Once Penelope properly apologizes, you have my leave to convince Uncle that she should present her paper. But do not, I beseech you, take any violent action against my cousin until I am there to stop You.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Through the grace of his superior intellect, Samuel convinced both Mrs. Harcourt and Deane that it was prudent for him to gather his own research tools. Deane never trusted the Practitioner's art, referring on his own strengths and abilities in their fight, but the widow seemed particularly keen on watching the 'contraptions' in the line of duty. She had even picked up Deane's spare set of night goggles and would have placed them on her own head, but Deane's laughter precluded any scientific curiosity on Mrs. Harcourt's part.

The tools of his trade packed firmly within his own carpet bag, Samuel found himself trailing behind his companions from the moment they left the Winchesters' room. Neither Deane nor Mrs. Harcourt wished to follow behind the other, and the woman took twice as many steps as his older brother simply to maintain the same stride. The widow did not even break her stride when she deftly grabbed a parasol from the stand near the front door, smiling politely at Deane as he - amazingly - held the door open for her. The look she gave him as she passed was remarkably thoughtful, as though she were remembering something long-forgotten - until Deane grinned at her and Mrs. Harcourt's green eyes glinted furiously.

Samuel snorted when Mrs. Harcourt opened the parasol the moment she was out the door, its white ruffles exploding in his older brother's face. Hazel eyes glared at him before Deane quickened his pace to walk at the widow's side.

The walk to Westshire led them along a fertile stretch of land, complete with waving flowers and an over-abundance of trees. When they were younger, Deane used to tell him stories about this countryside - their ancestral home - in the hopes that Samuel would remember what the Creature had cost them. Bundled in a carriage behind Father, Deane's voice was a litany of all they had lost, of all that they would reclaim once the Creature was killed and Mother was avenged.

On afternoons such as this, when the past lay so thick around them, Samuel sometimes wondered what happened to the little boy who was his brother. He could only shake his head, pushing his glasses atop his nose once more as his companions slowed to wait for him. He could see Westshire in the distance.

The town itself was an idyllic little place, believing itself to be more cosmopolitan than it was - like many of the smaller towns the Winchesters had visited during the years. Deane managed to capture of the eye of several women they passed along the road, leaving behind him winks and smiles in his wake. Mrs. Harcourt, likewise, was greeted politely by every personage she passed. _If the Creature had never been born, people would recognize us in that manner._ Samuel tried to set his jealousy aside, but it was a difficult task - Winston Hillsworth was merely a Lord; the Winchesters were the local baronage, however far removed life had taken them.

Mrs. Harcourt walked briskly down a side street, pausing once to make certain that the Winchesters were following, before marching up to a smaller building off the road. The building bore no sign marking it for what it was, but the widow knocked rapidly three times and then opened the door.

The Winchesters had dealt with bodies often enough within their profession, but that knowledge lacked benefit when it came to entering a mortician's place of business for the first time in their careers. There was a stench of decay unlike anything that Samuel had experienced, as though it had become a friend to this building - and the building would not be the same without it. Even Deane was doing his best not to grimace from the odor.

"Mr. Norman?" Deane's voice bellowed through the small foyer. He began walking into the next room, stopped only by a fierce glance from Mrs. Harcourt.

"Just a minute, just a minute," a distracted voice responded. A gaunt figure stepped into the foyer, with a fringe of black hair around his head and sunken eyes. He looked exactly like a villain in a pulp detective story, if such a personage existed within reality's boundary. "I am Mr. Norman."

"Good afternoon, sir," the widow returned with a small smile. "Do you have time to speak with us?"

Mr. Norman's face transformed with a smile. "Miss Penelope! To what do I owe the honor?"

Samuel closed his eyes, waiting for the widow's verbal explosion. Mrs. Harcourt simply chuckled, low in her throat. "I have not been Miss Penelope since I was seventeen. You flatter me, Mr. Norman." _What the devil?_ He dared to glance at Deane, who did a poor job disguising his disbelief at the woman's behavior. "May I introduce Mr. Deane Winchester and his younger brother, Samuel Winchester?" She gestured towards them with her right hand. "They are His Excellency's sons."

Mr. Norman leapt forward and began pumping Deane's hand energetically. "A pleasure, a pleasure, good sir. Have you come home to stay?" _They still remember us._ Samuel's throat swelled - Deane had once promised him they would return home when the journey was over.

_And we would be welcomed._

Deane looked acutely uncomfortable. "We are visiting Lord Hillsworth," his older brother added, frowning. "We have no permanent plans to stay." He tugged on his collar agitatedly.

_It is his own fault for refusing a valet - and for not learning the proper way to starch a collar._

"Terrible shame, that half-burned old house up there all alone. Westshire isn't the same without its Winchesters." The mortician shook his head. "Your mother was a fine woman."

"Yes, she was." Deane's voice was soft, and there was such a sound in it that Mrs. Harcourt's head turned swiftly to look upon him; Samuel would have sworn there was pity on her face, mixed with something else. His older brother shook his head. "But that is neither here nor there, good sir. My brother and I are performing an investigation regarding the spate of mysterious deaths in the area at Lord Hillsworth's request. Mrs. Harcourt was kind enough to inform us that one of the unfortunate victims had been brought to your establishment."

Samuel held his breath. _Deane, could you not have asked her first?_ He shook his head, once again pushing his glasses onto his nose. "Father has asked me to examine the body as well," Mrs. Harcourt added. The look she flashed at both of them was a dare. "I understand that it is unusual, Mr. Norman, but we are all most concerned about these deaths. This is _our_ home." Samuel shifted abruptly - was her emphasis deliberate?

Mr. Norman did not even blink at the request. "Of course. I will set up the second room for you. Do you mind waiting in the drawing room?" The mortician pointed to a small room beyond the door, sparsely furnished with two stiff-backed chairs, a low couch, and a table.

"Of course not," Samuel said. He gestured with his hand towards Mrs. Harcourt, who smiled at him and walked past Deane into the small room. She chose to sit in one of the stiff-backed chairs, her posture perfect as she began tapping her parasol on the floor. Samuel sat next to Deane on the low couch.

They said nothing while the sounds of the mortician puttering in a nearby room filtered towards them, although occasionally Samuel would catch his brother and Mrs. Harcourt glancing towards each other - when the other was not looking, of course.

Samuel smiled. Deane Winchester may have met his match in a woman who showed such promise with a shovel that Samuel suspected the same skill would make her parasol a deadly weapon. Samuel lowered his head, remembering a blonde-haired girl who laughed at his attempts to read poetry to her, all the while ignoring the other suitors doing the same.

_Jessica…_

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

_We have reached Dorsey with a minimum of additional fuss on Mrs. Jennings' part. Unfortunately, there are only two rooms available and I will be forced to share one with her for the night._

I am adding this postscript because something strange has happened. In speaking with the young attendant at the carriage post, poor Penelope was required to endure ten hours alone with two strange men yesterday - brothers, the attendant intimated - as there was an accident with one of the carriages. And one of those two men seemed suspiciously similar to the boy in my dream - if the attendant's descriptions were accurate. I do much look forward to meeting the elder, as I can only assume the young man was attending Uncle's conference - the elder brother was rumored to be quite handsome!

I know I am all but engaged, but one can still look, dear friend.

We are leaving for Westshire on the earliest coach, despite Mrs. Jennings' protestations. I believe I shall ring for a glass of sherry, as her protestations have not yet stopped and I am getting a headache. I only hope that I arrive at Highchurch in time to save Penelope from my vision!

Good night, cherished one.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

The victim was little more than a boy - a farmhand on one of the tenant farms. Samuel felt a cold hand within his stomach as he looked upon the corpse, with its red hair and freckles. This boy worked one of his father's farms, and the Winchesters could not even prevent his death.

_Why can we not save them all?_

"Poor young Jimmy," Mrs. Harcourt murmured. She was tying an apron she pulled from inside her carpet bag around her waist. The widow was already wearing gloves.

"Is there no one in this town you are not acquainted with, Mrs. Harcourt?" Deane asked.

"I am sure there is, Mr. Winchester," she replied evenly. "I do not live here any longer."

"But it is fortunate for us, good lady, that you have maintained so many contacts within the community." Samuel coughed, giving his brother a hard-eyed stare. Deane grinned and shrugged his shoulders. Samuel shook his head. Deane sighed. _Thank Providence!_

The widow said nothing. She began pulling specimen boxes out from her bag, placing them on the small worktable she had procured. Various instruments - including a magnifying glass and a scalpel - were already set out before her. Samuel had secured his own table on the opposite side of the room; the Electro-Analyzer was already sitting on the table before he began adding his darklight lenses to his night goggles. He had his pocket microscope handy in case he needed it, and had even packed a few of his own specimen cases. Mrs. Harcourt's kit looked woefully primitive compared to his pile of gleaming gadgets.

Deane picked up the Electro-Analyzer with both hands, flicking it on with his thumb. The gauges on top whirled, and its small motor gave off a hiss of steam. Mrs. Harcourt jumped, even though she was staring at Deane's hands intently. "It looks just like a dinner plate festooned with cunningly placed tubes and wires," the widow said softly. _The woman is tart enough to shrivel any man's hubris._ "I even recognize the china pattern," Mrs. Harcourt added.

"I would have much preferred something blue in deference to the pink floral pattern," Deane returned. "However, I do allow a certain obsequiousness resulting from my brother's peculiar nature." Mrs. Harcourt laughed at that, a muted sound that would have been suspiciously reminiscent of a giggle if her expression were not so solemn.

"The plate was the appropriate circumference and density for the instrument," Samuel replied. _Philistines!_ He removed his spectacles and placed the night goggles onto his head. "And the ceramic content assists with the dissemination of the electromagnetic particles," the youngest Winchester added.

Mrs. Harcourt shrugged her shoulders, and pulled out a sketchpad and a pencil. She leaned forward to peer at the wounds on the boy's neck, sketching intently as she examined them. Deane gently grabbed her elbow as she tipped forward, steadying her. Samuel let loose with a low growl in his throat when he saw how haphazardly Deane was holding the Electro-Analyzer to help her. Green eyes widened as she took a step back. "My thanks," she stammered.

"You were in the way, woman," his older brother returned gruffly. Sam blinked - for a moment, an odd stare passed between his older brother and the widow. The Electro-Analyzer gave off a low click, slow and steady - the energies were most likely residual. Deane moved past Mrs. Harcourt, and she continued her drawing.

Samuel shrugged, slowly moving his gaze across the boy's body. Something flickered when he focused on the farmhand's chest. "Blast!" It was some sort of symbol, marked in the dark spectrum - as though some creature had burned it into the farmhand's flesh.

_It probably has._

"What do you see?" His brother's voice was business-like, the Electro-Analyzer continuing its slow examination of the farmhand.

"There is something seared beneath his flesh," Samuel replied.

"_Beneath_ his flesh?" Mrs. Harcourt asked the question before Deane could formulate the words. She was staring at the body, a crease forming between her brows. "That outlandish contrivance can see _beneath_ skin?" The widow looked impressed in spite of herself, the hand holding her pencil trembling.

"There's some sort of symbol burned into the poor boy's chest," Sam explained. He tapped the nearest lever on his goggles. "My darklight lenses allow me to see beyond the scope of human capabilities." He frowned. "But it is a symbol I do not recognize. May I borrow your sketchbook, Mrs. Harcourt?"

"Of course!" She handed over both readily, and turned with a smile towards Deane. "And what are you doing, Mr. Winchester?"

"I am examining the body for signs of an electromagnetic field," he replied, hazel eyes looking at the Electro-Analyzer's gauges as Deane listened for a change in the sound pattern. "Supernatural creatures often leave behind such an electromagnetic residue." The machine crackled as Deane passed it over the jagged wounds on the farmhand's stomach - chunks of flesh were torn out by a large claw. "Samuel! This wound appears to have such residue intact, whereas the wounds at the neck and the thigh do not."

"I wonder why," Mrs. Harcourt said.

"It is an interesting question," Deane returned. "Perhaps you should leave such supposition to experts?" If the widow noticed the condescension in his brother's tone, she chose not to acknowledge it.

"Is there something in the material composition of these creatures, Mr. Samuel, which would affect electromagnetism at such a level?" Her green eyes sparkled with the question. "One could surmise that their interaction with normal matter generates the effect. A classification of those creatures might assist in limiting your search, would it not? Of course, that would require an in-depth catalogue of such monsters."

_She **is** a scientist!_

"I - " Samuel swallowed. "I confess that the thought did not occur to me."

Mrs. Harcourt said nothing to that. "Look at this, Mr. Samuel." She pulled the magnifying glass off her table. "Do you see this laceration? The one going in the opposite direction of all the others?" She gestured to one lone wound amidst the gaping clawmarks. "Does not the edge look out of place?" She was lightly brushing the mark with her index finger, examining it through her magnifying class.

Deane grunted, gazing over the widow's shoulder. "It was made by a blade."

"Are you certain?" Samuel changed to the magnifying lenses on his goggles, joining them near the corpse's side. He gestured towards the jagged edge of the clawmarks. "Would not a perforated edge leave marks such as this?"

"No," Deane replied.

"As much as it pains me to agree, Mr. Samuel, your brother is correct." Mrs. Harcourt tapped one hand with the magnifying glass. "Even a serrated edge would leave a regular pattern."

"Was the boy assaulted by someone _before_ being attacked by a werewolf?" Deane scratched his right ear, hazel eyes meeting Samuel's goggles with a confused expression. "And if he was, who did it?"

"The person who burned that mark beneath his flesh?" The widow was pulling off her gloves, setting them on the table. Deane's gaze whipped towards her. The look on his brother's face caused Samuel pause - he had never before seen such consternation on his older brother's countenance. Deane set the Electro-Analyzer on the nearest table. "When did he die?" Mrs. Harcourt added.

"According to the reports, the boy was killed before we dispatched the werewolf," Samuel answered, tapping his lips with a finger. He leaned in to look at the wound again. If the hypothesis they were devising was correct, there was something sinister wandering the countryside of Westshire, cunning enough to use another Creature as a smokescreen. Something was hunting in their… _Home._ There was a dull thump behind him, and Samuel whirled to face it, exclaiming, "We must stop this, Deane!"

His older brother was kissing Mrs. Harcourt soundly, and her hands were actually weaving themselves into Deane's hair. Deane had pushed her back against the table. _Oh, bloody hell! Deane is giving Mrs. Harcourt the spurs!_ What was his older brother thinking, cleaving to their host's daughter? Or, more to the point, with _what_ was Deane thinking? _His Engine of Love's Assault, of course!_ Samuel shook his head. Deane chuckled as she made a low sound in her throat, her hands suddenly clutching his arms.

"What strange disturbance is occurring within the organ masquerading as your brain, Mr. Winchester?" Mrs. Harcourt pushed Deane away forcefully. "How could you possibly reflect that I would enjoy your attentions again - let alone in a room where we have been examining a _corpse_?" Her green eyes blazed as Deane opened his mouth. "Do _not_ speak, sir! Do not even _think_ that there is something you could say that would be some small recompense to your offense!"

"You'll forgive me, Penny." Deane was smiling - and there was nothing acerbic in the look he gave her. "You always do." He jerked on his left sleeve. "Or have you forgotten how often we used to get caught kissing each other?"

A strangled noised escaped Samuel's throat, and he desperately needed a shot of whiskey - water simply would not do. "_Kissing_ each other?" Samuel stammered.

Mrs. Harcourt looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Do not pay your brother any mind, Mr. Samuel. The truth is not as scandalous as he would have you believe. I was four the last time he kissed me." A pained expression crossed her face, and she touched her lips - pulling her hand away only when she realized that Deane was grinning at her.

"You knew each other when you were children?" Samuel wished his hands were not so cold. Deane had never mentioned her, in all the years they were growing up in the backs of carriages and living out of steam trunks between train stations.

_Except to ask about her when we arrived._

"Your family stayed with mine, after...your mother passed," Mrs. Harcourt said, her eyes clouded. "And there was a summer you and your brother were with us while your father conducted business elsewhere." She began putting her tools back into her carpet bag. "I used to put flowers in your bassinet while Deane sang lullabies." The widow had a wistful expression on her face, and Mrs. Harcourt did not seem to realize that she had referred to Deane by his given name. "I had all but forgotten," she added softly.

"Lullabies?" Samuel nearly choked.

Deane was blushing - Samuel would not have thought it possible, but there it was. A widow had reduced his older brother to a blushing schoolboy. Deane said nothing, simply turning on his heel and walking out of the room. Mrs. Harcourt shook her head, continuing to put things into her carpet bag, and she looked unaccountably sad for one who had just gotten the best of Deane Winchester. Samuel realized he liked her - underneath her serious demeanor, she was part of home. The home Deane remembered. The home Samuel so desperately wished to know.

Samuel coughed. "Mrs. Harcourt?" He continued when her green eyes focused on his face. "I would very much like to hear your paper." The widow twitched, opening her mouth as if to protest his statement. He shook his head. "I know it is your paper, dear lady, and your secret will be safe with me. I plan on asking your father to allow you to present it tomorrow during the mid-morning break."

The smile Mrs. Harcourt gave him made Samuel wish the Winchesters had never left Westshire, but that was not their fate - not having a home was also part of their curse.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Mrs. Jennings proved to be more intolerable a companion the earlier she awakened in the morning. Even Templeton, whose good nature was generally assured, could not rouse himself to his ordinarily cheerful countenance when dealing with the old gossip. The carriage ride to Westshire was made bearable only by the knowledge that Vertiline would soon be home; after she greeted Penelope with the necessary tongue-lashing, Vertiline would set her plan to rescue her cousin into play.

Templeton managed to send a runner to Highchurch to request the carriage, while Vertiline attempted to soothe Mrs. Jennings' ill humour with lemonade - they sat outside the inn, at small tables arranged cunningly for al fresco dining during pleasant weather. They had less than an hour to wait for the carriage; had Mrs. Jennings not been traveling with them, Vertiline would have suggested making the short walk from town to Highchurch, but her temporary guardian was already complaining about her bunions after the brief constitutional to the inn.

Mrs. Jennings' complaints regarding Uncle Winston's buggy did not cease until Highchurch itself came into view. The view from the road was impressive - Highchurch had been in the family for centuries, although Uncle Winston's father had added the North wing during his lifetime. Both she and Penelope preferred the rooms in the original part of the house.

No sooner had the buggy pulled in front of the manor did the front door burst open and Mary - dear Mary - pulled Vertiline into her arms to hug her fiercely. The cook burst into tears, and Vertiline could do nothing but simply hold onto her as tightly as she could.

"Mary?" Vertiline asked softly. "What is wrong?"

"It's nothing, Miss Vertiline. It's just - " The cook swallowed. "To see both my girls home, safe and sound." Mary's nose was bright red, and she looked as though she had already been crying before Vertiline arrived. "Miss Penelope will be very happy to see you," the cook added. "She's finally done it." The fierce pride in Mary's voice was palpable.

Vertiline's blue eyes widened. "She's convinced Uncle Winston?" Mary nodded. "Templeton, leave the bags and follow me," Vertiline cried. She noticed the frown Mrs. Jennings sent her when she grabbed Templeton by the hand and dragged him into the house behind her.

"Dash it, Verd!" Templeton's breath was labored. "Where are we off in such a hurry?"

"My cousin is presenting a paper," Vertiline returned. She wished she had worn a different pair of boots - although the current style was striking when combined with her height, Vertiline found them to be quite constricting. In her old walking boots, she would have managed twice the speed.

Templeton snorted. "I can imagine nothing so dissatisfying as listening to your cousin read a paper written by her husband."

Vertiline skidded to a halt in front of the Billiards Room. She could hear Uncle Winston's guests murmuring amongst themselves, and opened the doors to the room more enthusiastically than she had expected. Several pairs of eyes and bewhiskered faces turned to face them - and Vertiline observed the young man from her dream sitting towards the back, with a devilishly handsome gentleman.

The handsome gentleman noted her attention, and inclined his head towards her with a smile that would have made most women weak in the knees. Vertiline, however, had grown up with the attentions of men and found nothing terribly earth-shattering about another one calmly assessing her with a familiar gleam in his hazel eyes. He was handsome, however. About _that_ there could be no doubt.

Penelope was standing behind the lectern that Uncle Winston always used during these dreadfully tedious conferences, the top of her head barely clearing its height. Templeton took one look at her, and snorted; Vertiline elbowed him neatly in the ribs before pulling him behind her to two available seats - in front of the young man from her dream and his striking brother. _Excellent._

"This is ridiculous, Father!" Penelope's sharp voice filtered through the room. Several of the men chuckled at that. "How can I address a group of people I can barely see?"

"If you are unprepared to speak before this august council," Uncle Winston replied, "then you are not ready to continue your husband's pursuits." Had Vertiline been standing close enough to kick him, she would have. Penelope was on her best behavior.

"Never fear, Father." Penelope stepped out from behind the lectern. "I shall improvise."

"Can you handle this without your notes, girl?" One of the older gentleman cat-called from the front row. The bespectacled young man behind them open his mouth as though to speak, but his older brother simply shook his head. _And why shouldn't he defend my cousin?_ Vertiline felt her cheeks begin to flush. Who did that handsome man think he was? Vertiline turned in her chair to glower at him before returning her attentions to her cousin.

"Professor Bunting, you would not be able to find your head in the morning without your valet!" Penelope smiled sweetly at the old man - a trick that Vertiline had taught her. The room erupted with laughter, and her cousin turned to face the crowd. "Brilliant! Now that I have your attention, gentlemen, we should proceed. Today we are here to talk about - " Penelope paused dramatically, her green eyes sparkling.

_She has not been so excited since the purchase of the new telescope._

"Excrement!" That came from the other side of the hall, from the third row. Vertiline narrowed her blue eyes - it was that unfortunate gentleman whose toe she nearly removed from his foot with her umbrella. The bespectacled boy's older brother snorted outright at that, and her cousin glanced in his direction - Penelope's brow wrinkling with her hidden scowl.

"I suppose there is that interpretation, Mr. Winters. But the hypothesis was in regards to the migration of plant-life based on the movement of animals - such as birds, in this instance." How Penelope remained calm, Vertiline would never know; she would have been pitching the largest book on the lectern in Mr. Winters' direction.

"I have a question, Mrs. Harcourt." The third interruption in as many seconds seemed to rattle her cousin's composure.

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Yes, Professor Atkins?"

"Did you actually retrieve the seeds from the excrement before you planted them?" Professor Atkins' shoulders were shaking from what Vertiline assumed to be subverted laughter.

The room erupted into laughter at Penelope's expense. All color drained from her face, and she glanced at Uncle Winston - who was doing nothing to calm the men in the room. _He did this to teach her a lesson. Science is a man's work._ Vertiline rose to her feet - Penelope was worth ten of these stuffy academics - but she needed to leave. Her cousin saw no need to hide behind polite niceties, and would surely give Vertiline credit for her _role_ in the experiment. _I beg you, Penelope! Do not say it aloud! I will die._ There was no reason to divulge that Vertiline was responsible for retrieving the lion's share of the seeds Penelope had used for her experiments.

"Gentlemen!" The boy with the spectacles cried. "You consider yourselves paragons of science, and yet you mock a hypothesis with merit and intelligence simply because it is presented to you by a woman. You should all be ashamed of yourselves." He snorted disdainfully. "You have all read Mr. Harcourt's paper. Would any of you be mocking him were he standing up there?" The boy's eyes flashed behind his spectacles.

"At least I have the courage to address the convictions of my Calling, instead of hiding in a Billiards Room late at night discussing Electro-Analyzers and the creation of goggles that allow you to see into the dark spectrum!" Penelope cried. There was a triumphant look in her green eyes as she stared hard at Uncle Winston, but the bespectacled boy looked completely thrown by her declaration. "I may not be a Practitioner, Father, but you are an idiot if you believed I had _no_ idea that _you_ were." Her cousin stalked down the aisle between the chairs.

_Practitioner? What the devil is she talking about now?_

"Penny!" The bespectacled boy's older brother grabbed her cousin's arm as she passed.

"You laughed at me - " Her cousin shook her head fiercely, cheeks flushed. "Mr. Winchester." Penelope's voice was stiff, and the man let go of her arm. "I will not soon forget that." She slammed open the doors, her boots clacking down the hallway with the force of her step. The man actually had the foolhardiness to pursue her - even Vertiline knew better than to do so when Penelope had _that_ look upon her face.

The men sat in stunned silence for a full thirty seconds, before the room erupted with a burst of sound. Three men accosted Uncle Winston fully. Vertiline smiled; he _had_ done something to deserve Mrs. Jennings' attention. She turned to the bespectacled young man, holding out her hand in greeting. "You have my thanks, sir, for your kind defense of my cousin."

"Mrs. Harcourt is a friend." The boy returned a shy smile. His eyes were... _Beautiful._ The grasp of his hand within hers was firm- not limp, like Templeton's handshake. His hair, split so perfectly on either side of his head, lent the boy - the man - an aura of quiet distinction.

"I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Vertiline answered, returning his smile. The man was a good deal more than handsome underneath his spectacles. His clothing, although somewhat rustic, was as well-made as any in the room. Vertiline resisted the urge to touch the rough fabric of his waistcoat. It seemed so... _Rugged._

"My name is Winchester," he replied. _Does he have dimples?_ "Samuel Winchester."

The name sounded familiar to Vertiline, but the light shining in his eyes superceded any immediate need to understand his history or Samuel Winchester's pursuits. "I am Vertiline Lucas." She smiled. He really was quite handsome. Why did she think the older brother to be the handsome one, when clearly Samuel Winchester cut as striking a figure as any man could? She would gladly engage in any experiment - even another stretch in the rookery - if Vertiline Lucas could do so at the man's side.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Lucas. It is my sincere hope that we will become friends as quickly as your cousin and I," he said, smiling. Vertiline felt her knees go weak, but she managed to keep her balance by looking into Mr. Winchester's beautiful green-blue eyes.

"As do I, good sir," she returned. He let go of her hand. Vertiline would have said more, but Mr. Winchester took one look at the man standing next to her - Templeton, Vertiline reminded herself - and bid them both good morning.

They were three steps down the hall outside the Billiards Room when Vertiline realized she had failed to include Francis Templeton in her introductions.

_Blast!_

* * *

A/N:

Happily for my muse, an entirely new picture of Jensen in suspenders surfaced on the Internet. There was much rejoicing. And there will also be upcoming scenes with more bracers, and boots. Lots of boots…

Penelope's experiment is based on one performed by Charles Darwin and his son.

Mrs. Jennings was, indeed, inspired by the character of the same name in _Sense and Sensibility_.

For those of the steampunk persuasion, the Electro-Analyzer is the Victorian version of the EMF reader. The "dark spectrum" is actually how Practitioners refer to ultraviolet light. The night goggles? I just think Samuel should use them whenever possible.

The terms used to describe "naughty bits" are part of Victorian erotic vernacular: "Giving Mrs. Harcourt the spurs" is another way of describing an encounter of a somewhat indelicate nature. "Cleaving" is yet another term for the action mentioned above. "Engine of Love's Assault" is the best term I could find for the portion of one's anatomy that our Dean might refer to as "Mr. Happy."

Yes, the research I do for this fandom. ;-P


	3. During Which a Grand Experiment

_**By Gaslight**_

Twenty-two years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home. Since that day, a bereaved John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick upon his family; raising his sons to follow in his footsteps.

Armed with Samuel's inventions and Deane's uncanny ability to bring down any prey, the brothers Winchester travel through Great Britain and Europe, following clues they receive in the form of mysterious letters — and Samuel's disturbing visions.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. Likewise, the idea of the weapons they use owes more to Jules Verne than to my own devising. And while Mr. Winchester's peculiar mode of transport has not yet made an appearance, its particular execution also does not belong to me. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, Samuel Winchester, Penelope Harcourt, Vertiline Lucas, OMC (Winston Hillsworth)

Pairings (Overall): Deane/OFCs, Samuel/OFC

Rating (Overall): M

Rating: M (Corset-Rippage; hope I edited out the really naughty bits well enough for an M)

Summary: Deane devises a grand experiment, so broad in scope that it requires the assistance of every woman at Highchurch under the age of sixty. Meanwhile, Penelope endures what may be the singularly worst day of her entire life.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie. This chapter is dedicated to everyone who saw a certain picture of young Mr. Ackles and went "Guh." Boots and suspenders included just for you!

* * *

**Chapter Three: During Which a Grand Experiment is Conducted, and a Long-Standing Question Receives its Answer**

Penelope stormed down the hallway, intent on reaching her room quickly; she had neither the desire nor the patience to endure the company of others after being so grandiosely embarrassed by her own father. There had been a certain sting to his lack of defense, an admonition that he would otherwise never make towards an allegedly beloved daughter. The fact that such a discomforting circumstance occurred with Mr. Winchester in the room was surely a sign that Fate, along with Winston Hillsworth, enjoyed grinding her under its boot.

It was embarrassment enough that she had been forced to hide her studies under Peter's name for five years; much as she loved Peter, he was a lackluster scholar with little reliance on hypothesis and experimentation. Truthfully, Penelope had completed most of the research for his last work posthumously, after reviewing the results of several botched or poorly executed experiments. Men were somehow convinced that they were the logical gender – but if the stunned looks on the faces of those blasted Practitioner fools when she scolded her father for his hypocrisy was any indication, imprudence was shared by both sexes.

She turned a corner, feeling an almost instantaneous relief as she crossed into the south wing. Even the staff gave that portion of the house a wide berth – Penelope and Vertiline fiercely guarded their privacy, and did nothing to dispel the rumors of its haunting. Quite the contrary, actually. Penelope could no longer count the nights she and Verd had thrown sheets over their nightclothes and gone wandering through the halls; usually when a new servant joined the estate, but often around Halloween simply for the amusement it afforded them. Only Bootsie knew the identity of the ghosts, and he kept their secret until the night he died.

Penelope flexed her hands at her sides. She could not even openly grieve for the man, although both she and young Mr. Samuel had spoken with Mary at length regarding her son's death. The sadness in Mary's eyes was a cruel recrimination for what they had done, even though Samuel had assured Penelope that it was Mary who begged the Winchesters to free her son from his cursed existence. The weight of Bootsie's death was the reason she forced herself upon the Winchesters' investigation; given her own preference, Penelope would have chosen to avoid additional contact with Mr. Samuel's rakish older brother.

The memory of their last kiss still burned on her lips. Penelope brought her hand to her mouth, and scowled. _The impudent cad! _Deane Winchester had somehow managed to bypass her legitimate outrage by appealing to one of Penelope's few sentimental memories – the little boy who dragged her throughout the countryside, the little boy who so desperately missed his mother. The only boy she had ever kissed before becoming engaged to Peter Harcourt. The boy that she – _Damn the man and his preternatural charm!_

All Penelope wanted to do at that moment was lock herself in her bedroom and continue working on her fox skeleton reconstruction project, but that did not appear to Fate's plan. However she had offended the universe, she must have done so at great measure – for that horrible scoundrel was stalking Penelope down the very halls leading to her refuge. Penelope supposed he may have ceased his chase had she simply acknowledged his presence, but she had vowed to never again bestow her consideration onto Deane Winchester..

"Blast it, Penny!" Deane Winchester's voice echoed down the hall towards her, followed by the sound of hard footsteps. An arm caught Penelope's elbow, and she was forcibly turned in his direction. "How can a woman with legs as stunted as yours walk so damnably fast," he asked.

"Perhaps it is the anticipation of your antic behavior, Mr. Winchester, which propels me away from you – a reaction not unlike magnetic repulsion." Penelope frowned, refusing to look him in the eye. "It surely could not be the fact that I walk miles every day on my underdeveloped legs." She sniffed disdainfully. "It is a habit you would do well to consider, sir, instead of forcing your attentions on the maids."

The scoundrel did not even possess the grace to appear perturbed by such an accusation. Deane Winchester simply looked at her with a self-satisfied grin, scratching his right ear as though this were a commonplace occurrence. "I was simply conducting a personal experiment," the man replied. "Certainly you understand the importance of doing such, Pen – " He visibly winced under her stare, coughing. "Mrs. Harcourt," he added.

"You are unbelievable, sir! You would have me believe that you are in the midst of a scientific endeavor that requires you to kiss the staff?" Penelope knew her voice had increased in volume, but she was too angry to be concerned with politeness. The man standing before her was systematically accosting every woman on the estate. She was simply the first of many a rendezvous. _I can raise the stakes of your game, Mr. Winchester._ "Perhaps I shall ask Wharrow and the stable boys to participate in your experiment as well, simply to provide you with an ample population size!" she added.

"No," the cad replied, his smile widening as Deane Winchester looked upon her. "My experiment requires only short assignations with the gentler sex – nothing untoward, as your maids will tell you. I _can_ be a gentleman, Mrs. Harcourt, when the occasion requires."

"That is small consolation to me, Mr. Winchester. You will find that we protect our own at Highchurch." Penelope mustered the sweetest smile she could manage. "If I find that you are kissing the maids again, sir, I will have you dispelled from the house and you will be sleeping in the stables for the remainder of your stay with us."

"I solemnly swear, Mrs. Harcourt, that I will no more touch the lips of either young maid," Deane Winchester replied. He appeared genuinely sincere, which should have been an indication that his devious mind had already concocted an even more despicable plot. "You have my word on it as a Winchester."

"I accept your vow. Now please le – "

The third time he kissed her, Penelope knew – beyond doubt, and with full control of her reason – that her body had become her worst enemy. So long sheltered in the temple of propriety and widowhood, Penelope had been able to deal easily with the untoward attentions of previous suitors, but her common sense had never come upon a foe as forceful as Dean Winchester. The way he looked when hunting the werewolf, in his pea coat and braces, stopped her breath in her throat; Penelope was simply too perturbed by her reaction to acknowledge its cause.

Penelope made no attempt to curtail Deane Winchester's attentions. Much to her chagrin, she assented by returning his kiss hungrily, wanting nothing more than to lose herself in the taste of him. Even in a full night of sweet transport, Peter could not invoke the longing inside of her that the damnable Mr. Winchester kindled within thirty seconds of shared breath. Had he moved her against the wall and used his prodigious engine to sweetly ravage her mouth of nature, Penelope would have ecstatically tyed the lovers' knot with him in the hallway – and hang whomever walked by and spied them in the act.

When they paused for breath, Mr. Winchester took a step back to smile upon her. "Thank you, Mrs. Harcourt. Your response was exactly as I predicted it would be." And his smile – the damnable man's smile – turned into a grin, his eyes twinkling at her. "I appreciate your contribution to Science, good lady. I bid you a gentler afternoon than your morning." Deane Winchester turned suddenly on his heel and walked back down the hall the way he came.

Penelope watched him saunter away as all words failed her, continuing to her room when he turned the corner into the Main Hall and it was evident that he was not returning. She shook her head, closing her eyes – only to see the exact scene she had envisioned transcribed against her eyelids. In her mind's eye, Deane Winchester wore nothing but his boots, slightly untied as they had been as he returned down the hall.

_I am cursed._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It had not been a productive morning for Deane Winchester until he followed Penelope Harcourt down the hallway to her room. He had tried to garner the widow's personal attention throughout breakfast, even going so far as to have that pretty redheaded maid he kissed the night before – Molly or Milly, he could not remember which – send a note with the widow's breakfast compote. Mrs. Harcourt did not even read it; she simply crumpled the note in one hand and tossed it over her shoulder.

After the fiasco her scientific presentation had become, Deane followed her. He was doing so for the good of his experiment – not, as his rebellious conscience surmised, because of the way Penelope Harcourt had looked yesterday afternoon. He sighed. A sweet smile had played upon her countenance as she remembered all the days they played outside, him dragging her through the countryside. Deane grinned. When Penny was particularly slow, he would make her kiss his freckles as punishment – which Penny believed to be signs of the faeries' disfavor. Deane chuckled, wondering if Mrs. Harcourt even remembered her former fascination with faeries. When she was four years old, it was all that the girl discussed.

He snorted. That memory was nothing compared to the look on her face when he kissed her a third time in the hallway outside of her suite, Penelope's gold-flecked green eyes sparkling with desire. Deane could have cleaved to her in the hallway, and Mrs. Harcourt would have gladly taken his spurs. He sighed. He _should_ have tried to cleave to her in the hallway; that was ultimately the purpose of his entire experiment – but there was still one young lady on the premises younger than the age of sixty, and a dedication to Science born from living with Samuel Winchester required that Deane make the last and final attempt. _Samuel **should** be proud of me. He **won't** be, of course, but he should. I am doing this, at least in part, for his beloved Science._

Truly, he just wanted to kiss another pretty girl before his next altercation with the withering widow.

It did not take long for Deane to spy his next target – the blonde young woman who turned and stared at him before Penelope's presentation. She was a lithesome young creature, dressed in the height of fashion with the prettiest blue eyes ever to grace a woman's face. In point of fact, she was _beautiful_. Her gown was a delightful shade of blue; Deane suspected that it was cunningly dyed to match her eyes, which meant that the young lady in question came from a wealthy background. She had paused by the back hallway to choose a parasol from the stand near the door, lips pursing fetchingly as she decided on one that best matched her clothing, and walked onto the grounds.

Deane allowed her five minutes to start her walk, and then proceeded out the door to follow her. He kept her trim figure on the horizon, careful to not lose sight of her while doing his best to meander in her direction. Occasionally, Deane would catch the young woman watching him, parasol unfurled to shade herself from the glare of the sun, before she proceeded on her way. Under normal circumstances, the blonde young woman would be an excellent diversion.

He did much wonder, however, how the widow had learned about his trysts with both maids. It was as though Penelope Harcourt had eyes in the back of her head. Deane paused in his tracks; was the widow following him? Deane turned to look behind him, but all he could see were the rolling grounds of Highchurch Manor, without the ornament of a pretty young widow in a purple gown. Deane would most likely need an additional pair of eyes himself were he to catch that damnable woman in the act of espionage.

The young woman had stopped within the midst of the grove of trees where Mrs. Harcourt had nearly been ravaged by the lamented Bootsie – a certain death were it not for the fortuitous arrival of the Winchester brothers. Deane smiled to himself; the way she had kissed him that night had set this plan into motion, but it was how she looked in his arms – right before she fainted – that engendered the chase. When she was not playing the role of a harpy, Penelope Harcourt was quite fetching.

His future companion closed her parasol, and began fanning herself. The young blonde woman gestured him forward and, as a gentleman of sorts, Deane felt that it was his duty to comply with the young woman's wishes. After all, he would be getting a kiss from her prior to the end of their converse, and it was only polite to afford such niceties when the occasion required. He even remembered to take her hand for the proscribed amount of time. _Samuel would be very impressed._

"Good morning, dear lady," Dean said, returning the young woman's nod. "I believe I do not yet have the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"Is it not customary for the gentleman to introduce himself first to my guardian in these instances?" The blonde woman's eyes widened, but there was a pert tone in her voice that seemed oddly familiar. She was fanning herself slowly. "It is highly improper to address you under such circumstances. You shook my hand, sir, without chaperone."

"Surely a fashionable young woman such as yourself is not bound by the strictures of such particulars when there is no one to tattle," Dean retorted. She actually smiled when he called her a fashionable young woman, which meant flattery was an appropriate tactic. He raised an eyebrow. "I am not, you will find, the most gentle of men," he added.

"No," returned the young woman, "You are not." She frowned. "Although I suppose it is fair that you know my name, as I lured you here to speak with you privately."

Deane's eyes widened. "And is that so proper?"

"It is not. But your behavior towards my cousin was most thoughtless, sir – if I can even be so polite as to use such an appellation of respect." The woman snapped her fan shut sharply.

"Cousin?" Deane nearly choked. No wonder the woman was signaling her disdain in such an impertinent manner. _As if I hadn't been in Society often enough to learn that silly fan language. _That also explained the sour disposition; Penelope Harcourt's influence was obvious; she had most likely introduced this younger – albeit taller, and much more well-attired – version of herself into Society."Mrs. Harcourtis your cousin?"

"That is correct, sir." The young woman opened and shut her fan quickly in succession, which did not bode well for Deane's ability to circumvent the tongue-lashing she was obviously planning to produce. "My name is Vertiline Lucas, and I assume by your look that you are Mr. Deane Winchester?"

Deane smiled. "At your service, Miss Lucas." He bowed gracefully. "My younger brother is here to confer with your uncle, Lord Hillsworth."

"Yes, I have the pleasure of your brother's acquaintance. How thrilling to have the displeasure of yours." Vertiline Lucas fairly sneered at him. If it was possible, the young woman was even more disagreeable than her cousin. With odds such as this, Deane may never fully complete his grand experiment before his final confrontation with Mrs. Harcourt.

"Truly, Miss Lucas, you will find my brother frightfully stuffy. You do not strike me as a young woman devoted to Scientific endeavors. That behavior is best left to more brilliant minds, such as your cousin." Deane was proud of the speech. It was simple – perhaps even succinct; easily understandable to a young girl newly introduced to Society.

Blue eyes flashed with the same fire he now recognized as a family trait. _Bugger!_ "Are you stating that I am obtuse, Mr. Winchester?" Miss Lucas' voice reached octaves her cousin could only dream of employing.

"Mr. Winchester is fond of back-handed compliments, although I do much wonder where he learned conversational English – for his definitions of words far exceed my limited understanding." Penelope Harcourt's voice rang towards his back. Deane turned slowly, so that he could see both women equally; the resemblance was, indeed, familial. "I would have been here sooner, dear cousin, but my shriveled limbs make it difficult for me to walk at anything but a labored stride," the widow added. "I only just learned from Mary that you arrived."

"Shriveled limbs?" Miss Lucas looked confused, and a look passed between them that reminded Deane of the way Samuel would glance at him in the midst of a conversation – relaying a message that only brothers could understand. It was discomfiting to be on the receiving end of such a message, to say the least.

"If you would excuse us, Mr. Winchester," Penelope said, "I wish to take a private constitutional with my cousin." The widow crossed her arms with Miss Lucas. "I would ask you to join us," she added, "but I am afraid I walk so slowly with my diminutive legs that your gargantuan feet would unmercifully cramp attempting to slow down so as not to disturb our pace."

_Dear God._ The two of them together could kill a man simply from the daggers of their wit. Deane found himself in the rare proposition of being outmatched within a conversation, a fact which rendered him ill-prepared. He bowed as politely as he could manage, before saying, "Then I shall take my leave of you. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Lucas." He frowned suddenly. "Until we speak again, Mrs. Harcourt."

"No doubt that will be the next time you attempt to detain me," the widow replied sweetly. Her eyes widened suddenly. "Have you kissed my cousin yet, Mr. Winchester? Based on the criteria you set before me earlier, she does fit the profile of those young women you are waylaying in the name of Science."

"You would let me…" Deane's voice trailed off, looking directly at Mrs. Harcourt's face. _She will kill me if I try._

"You are correct, dear cousin," Miss Lucas interposed, her voice almost a purr. "Mr. Winchester's definitions of words do far exceed our limited understanding. It must be _his _dedication to Science, for I have never seen a more _brilliant_ mind in action."

"Good day to both of you," Deane managed before turning on his heel and trotting towards the manor. The sounds of two women giggling echoed behind him as he walked. When he could no longer hear their laughter, Deane began to sprint. He needed to find Samuel before his younger brother had the supreme misfortune of becoming their next target. Deane was proud of himself for resisting the urge that quaked through his body, however; an act of supreme will, for which he would never – not having witnesses beyond himself – exact any credit.

_Why did I not just take her in the hallway? _

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Vertiline laughed daintily into Penelope's shoulder until the scoundrel could no longer be seen, and Penelope was happy to have her doing so – she did not think two weeks so long a time to be separated from her cousin, until she was alone at Highchurch without her closest friend. "You must promise me, Verd," Penelope said, "that you will never allow me to travel alone again. I was stuck in a carriage for ten hours with that damnable man. Had you come with me, I would not have been alone with him."

"Was not his brother there," Verd asked. She was still giggling.

"You have met Mr. Samuel?" Penelope spied the dreamy expression on her cousin's visage, and shook her head knowingly. "Ah, I see that you have. He is a handsome young man, is he not?"

"He is," Vertiline replied. "And his brother, were he not a thorough scoundrel, would be equally handsome." She shook her head. "Gargantuan feet?"

"It was, sadly, the best that I could consider under the circumstances," Penelope replied. Vertiline's expression was downright wicked, and Penelope held up a hand to silence her cousin before making the inevitable comparison regarding foot size and other male extremities. "Verd, such supposition is unbecoming of a lady," Penelope added.

"For all your protestations to the contrary, Penelope, _you_ are the lady. I am the lady's cousin." Vertiline's eyes sparkled. "He did have rather large feet, however."

"And the way he wears his boots is rather appealing," Penelope confessed, a small flush creeping into her cheeks. Truly, she found Deane Winchester rather appealing – from a purely aesthetic point of view. He was no longer the boy she recollected. Perhaps, given the life he had apparently led, he never had been that boy after his father removed his sons from Highchurch. _Do you remember me, old friend? _She shook her head. _Why am I thinking of **that** now?_ Vertline was still giving her that wicked smile. "You seem much enraptured of Mr. Samuel," Penelope added.

"Can the world buy such a jewel?" Vertiline asked.

"Yea," Penelope retorted, "and a case to put it into!" She hugged her cousin once more and then extricated herself. "Now that we have resorted to quoting Shakespeare at each other, why are you here?"

"Mrs. Jennings is an insufferable woman, and you should consider yourself roundly scolded for even considering my placement with her. I was going to murder her at your dining room table with a dessert spoon! By my reasoning, dear Penelope, that makes you an accomplice." Vertiline smacked Penelope on the arm with her fan. "Now tell me about Mr. Samuel Winchester. You only met on the carriage, and you are already taking moonlight walks?" Her dimples flashed in the sun.

"We did meet once by moonlight," Penelope replied, giving her cousin a strange look. _How does she know that? Verd will blame the Sight, no doubt._ Penelope lowered her eyes, allowing tears to fall. This was Vertiline – Mary most likely had not yet told her, unwilling to acknowledge Bootsie's demise. "But it was hardly a romantic affair." The widow sighed. "I do not know how to tell you this, Verd." She took her cousin's right hand and held it in both of her own. "Bootsie…" Penelope swallowed. "Bootsie passed away on the night I arrived."

"Bootsie is dead?" Verd looked stunned. "Why are we not mourning?" She pulled on Penelope's hands, disentangling hers. "Why are we not with Mary? I am going to kick your father the next time I see him, Penelope." Vertiline's voice cracked in her throat. "Did I miss the funeral?"

"There was no funeral, Verd," Penelope replied gently. She walked to the patch of grass where Bootsie's body had fallen, near where she had set the treasure box. "Do you remember those stories that Mother used to tell, about men who became wolves and walked the countryside during the nights of the full moon?"

"A werewolf?" Vertiline rolled her eyes, despite the tears which stood unshed within them. "Bootsie is dead, and you are discussing werewolves?"

"You should sit, dear cousin. I have horrible news to relay, which I would not believe myself except – " Her voice splintered in her throat. Penelope swallowed before continuing. "Except that I saw him change with my own two eyes – from wolf to man, after he had been killed." Penelope folded both hands in front of her waist, eyes still lowered. "Bootsie died near this spot where I am standing."

"You saw Bootsie die and he was a _werewolf_?" Vertiline gave a little laugh. "Have you any idea how preposterous such a claim is, coming from the great Scientist? You do not believe in something unless you can quantify it, Penelope. Yet you are the one asking me to believe that such things as _werewolves_ exist?"

"I am. I know what I saw, Vertiline." Penelope's eyes widened as her cousin began swaying on her feet. She attempted to grasp Vertiline before she fell, but Penelope was not hasty enough in her action.

"Well, that means one thing," her cousin replied, suddenly landing on her posterior from shock; the skirt of her gown was flung up when the bustle came into immediate contact with the ground. Penelope rushed to her side, helping Vertiline sit up slowly as her cousin straightened the skirt; Verd's blue eyes were round. "Werewolves exist," Verd breathed aloud with a shudder. "I always believed that they did, and while I should feel a certain amount of vindication in knowing this – " She was crying softly.

Penelope knelt and put her arms around her cousin, feeling wholly inadequate to the task of comforting Vertiline. It was bad enough that such creatures existed – still worse to know that one worked without the boundaries of one's home, or that a beloved friend was a creature of the night. "I wish this were not truth, Vertiline. You do not know how often I have wished it otherwise."

"How…" Verd swallowed, wiping her eyes with her gloved hands. "How did he die?"

"The Winchesters removed Bootsie's curse." Penelope was adamant that she was not going to divulge the particulars of how Bootsie died, half burned and shot full of silver bullets. "They hunt such creatures, I am told." Vertiline simply stared at her. "Bootsie killed people, Verd. Innocent people. I believe he would have wished the curse to end," Penelope added.

"The _Winchesters_ are demon hunters?"

"It would appear they hunt all sorts of creatures."

"And are you helping them, Penelope?" Vertiline's blue eyes, still tinged with tears, bore into her cousin's face. "I know you, cousin. You are helping them."

"I am." Penelope sighed. "What more can I do? Bootsie was in our family's care, and I know the truth of his death."

Vertiline attempted to rise to her feet, but was waylaid by her bustle. Penelope had to forcibly pull her cousin from her sitting position, and nearly toppled backwards herself from the force of her exertions. "You need to stop, Penelope," Verd said, her cousin's demeanor entirely serious. "You are going to get hurt," her cousin added.

"I am not so easily swayed by Mr. Winchester," Penelope replied. _Provided he does not kiss me again._

Vertiline looked at her as though Penelope were insane. "Are we even having the _same_ conversation, Penelope? I was referring to your _assisting_ the Winchesters, not whatever you wish to accomplish with the elder brother." Her cousin shook her head, blonde hair glistening. "There is danger coming if you continue down that road."

"Of course there is danger," Penelope sniffed. "The Winchesters hunt monsters!"

Vertiline shook her head. "No. _You_ are in danger."

"Ah." Penelope frowned. Their conversations hadn't devolved to this pattern in months – not since Francis Templeton had begun courting her cousin. Penelope believed that the relationship marked the end of Vertiline's childish belief in their "gifts," for no more were conversations peppered with dreams and portents. "You dreamt that I was in peril." Penelope did not even ask it as question.

"I did. You were being chased by a wooly creature in the company of Mr. Samuel Winchester."

"Which is difficult to prove when you have already met the man."

Verd frowned. "You are the most stubborn woman, Penelope! Why must you always rely on your five senses?" She shook her head again. "Even when you can see –" Vertiline sighed. "You do not believe it," she added.

"I put away those childish things, Verd."

"That is not entirely true, cousin." Vertiline stood before her, parasol at her side and a sour expression on her face. "You denied yourself to make your father happy after your mother's passing. Look at yourself, Penelope. You are not happy. You are not even alive! You forget what I know. Your life is defined by your devotion to Science and your Duty to the Hillsworth name." She sighed. "You are my dearest friend, Penelope, and it pains me to say this to you but…" Verd's voice trailed off.

Science and Duty were all that Penelope Harcourt possessed. "I believe I have some research to conduct, cousin, if you will excuse me," Penelope replied.

"Penelope!" Vertiline's eyes were shiny. Penelope paused in her footsteps, looking back at her. "I am sorry to say these things, but you need to hear them."

"Perhaps you are correct, Verd," Penelope sighed. _You are not even alive!_ Those words stung – only Vertiline had the right to say such, without reprisal, but Penelope could not remain and listen to further commentary.

"Promise me that you will meet me later for cribbage in the Game Room!" Vertiline's eyes had gone wide, and her expression was earnest. "I am to meet Mrs. Jennings and Templeton there after dinner, and I require a partner."

"I promise, Vertiline," Penelope said simply, and then turned on her heel to walk back towards the house. "I will gladly act as your partner," the widow added. Vertiline did not follow her, and Penelope did not look back. She refused to allow the tears standing in her own eyes to fall.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Deane located his younger brother within the Winchesters' room. He had assumed that Samuel would be changing his clothing in preparation for dinner, as Samuel was assiduously dedicated to such minutiae, but instead spied his younger sibling on his bed – sporting the mooniest expression Deane had yet seen upon his little brother's countenance as Samuel's long-fingers hands rifled through an old, decrepit box sitting next to him on the bed.

"If I had my druthers, Sammy, we would be shaking the dust of Highchurch off our boots by now," Deane said, sitting on his own bed.

"I do not wear boots," Samuel returned absent-mindedly, pulling out a packet of envelopes from the box.

"It was a figurative expression. I am capable of making them."

"Indeed," Samuel replied, opening up one of the envelopes and pulling out the paper from inside.

Deane nodded. "I have had quite the tedious afternoon."

"Really?" Samuel's blue-green eyes widened as he read the words on the parchment he had pulled from its casing. Much to Deane's chagrin, his younger brother actually sighed loudly. _Is he ignoring me?_

"After dinner, we should take to wandering the halls wearing nothing but our shoes," Deane commented; Samuel Winchester was not the only son of their father who could adequately test a theory, Oxford education or not.

"That sounds like an excellent plan, Deane."

"I think you will appear particularly fetching if you wear your green socks, as they will provide a nice balance to certain extremities," Deane added. "Perhaps we could also tie bells to ourselves."

Samuel nodded. "Of course."

"Blast it, Sammy!" Deane slammed his hand down on the nightstand between the beds. "Are you even listening to me?"

His brother's gaze focused on Deane's face, and Samuel smiled wistfully. "I confess that I was not, Deane. I've been perusing the box I found next to Mrs. Harcourt that night." He leaned forward, eyes glinting with excitement. "And I have found poems written by Miss Lucas when she was a girl."

"Why would you wish to read poetry, little brother, let alone poetry written by that blonde-haired shrew when she was six years old?"

"That blonde-haired goddess, you mean." Samuel sighed. "She thanked me so sweetly for my defense of her cousin, I find myself becoming enchanted with her." He lowered his head. "I had not ever thought to feel this way again."

Deane's mouth twisted wryly. "I am fairly certain I was confident in referring to Miss Lucas as a shrew." He shook his head. "Do not make the mistake of incurring her wrath, no matter how sweetly she appears to act. I barely escaped with my manhood intact once her cousin arrived."

"Mrs. Harcourt and I have come to an understanding, Deane. I am proud to call her potential friend, and happily acknowledge her as a colleague." Samuel sighed suddenly, looking towards the window. "Although I may be the only one. After she insulted her father's assembly, several of the men took it upon themselves to review their journal – and they discovered she was passing her own work under her husband's name."

"And just how did those bearded intellectuals determine this?"

Samuel frowned. "One of them began reviewing the paper she attempted to present this morning, and recognized several resources that were available only after her husband's death. Another realized that the research was much more thorough than he remembered Professor Harcourt capable of producing, exacting and minute in detail." He turned to look at his older brother. "Many have demanded a public apology for her outburst during dinner this evening."

"If Penny even attempts to apologize, I will throw her over my own knee and spank her myself," Deane snapped. Another thought occurred to him, one which he was reticent to ask. "Was her paper…acceptable?"

"Mrs. Harcourt is an accomplished natural scientist, if that is what you are asking."

Deane smiled. "Then I will most certainly spank her should that occasion arise."

"You take too many liberties with the woman, Deane. Do not sully her reputation more than she already has by attempting to rise above her station." Deane snorted outright at that. His younger brother looked serious, before glancing down at the envelope he still held in his hands. Samuel's blue-green eyes shone with the germination of an idea. "Would it not be romantic to memorize Miss Lucas' poetry and recite it to her during an evening stroll?" Samuel asked.

"Reciting poetry may, indeed, be romantic, younger brother," Deane concluded, "But I do believe you are inviting Miss Lucas' troublesome disposition if you attempt to recite _her_ poetry. Do you not recall that Penny was digging up the box where it had been buried? Would not Miss Lucas become suspicious if some podgy intellectual with precisely parted hair began reciting a poem she penned when she was six? A poem that she buried in a box, Samuel."

"I still believe it would be a romantic gesture. And I'm certain she was older than six." Samuel rolled his eyes, eyebrows sticking up over his spectacles. "Several of the allusions are quite sophisticated."

"Of course you would, Samuel. To do otherwise would be against your nature and, therefore, evil." Deane rose to his feet, calmly ignoring the glare graced upon him by Samuel Winchester, and stretched his arms above his head. "What are we having for dinner, then?"

"Some experimental Indian dish that Mr. Jenkins' personal cook will be preparing," Samuel replied. "It should be excellent."

Deane wrinkled his nose. "I think I shall raid the pantry and see if there are leftovers from lunch."

"You just wish to avoid Mrs. Harcourt and her cousin."

"The thought did cross my mind," Deane replied, chuckling. He began rummaging through his satchel, stashed underneath his bed, and pulled out a well-worn journal. "It appears that even I may benefit from some reflection this evening."

"Be certain to tell the maids that, Deane, the next time you kiss them."

Deane snorted. "Does everyone here know that I kissed the blasted maids? I was doing it for Science!" _Why does no one believe me? _Samuel's only response was to laugh outrageously until moisture glittered in the corners of his younger brother's eyes. "I am most put out with you, Samuel!" he added, stalking out the door of their room. "If I stay any longer listening to your ceaseless prattle about poetry, I may even have to hurt you on general principle!" Deane slammed the door behind him as he left the room.

It was the second time Deane Winchester made a hasty retreat with the resonance of amusement trailing behind him. He hoped there would not be a third occasion for such another thwarting condition.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The door to Penelope's room whipped open without ceremony, and heavy footsteps walked into her room. It was the damnable man, thinking to fool her once more by acceding to her sarcastic invitation from the previous day. She stood and whirled to face her intruder, calling out, "Mr. Winche – " Green eyes narrowed. Penelope coughed. "Father, what are you doing here?"

"We are going to discuss your indecorous comportment, Penelope Hillsworth!" Her father was using her maiden name, which was never a good sign. "You have reduced me to a laughingstock within the Society. Keeping our secret is paramount to our very existence as Practitioners!" He shook his head. "But that is nothing compared to your self-indulgent belief that _you_ are a scientist!"

"I _am_ a scientist, Father, and there is nothing to be said that will make it otherwise." Penelope gestured throughout her room, scores of various projects on the walls and in her bookcases, on worktables and her desk. "You are the one who raised me so."

"I raised you to be a companion _to_ a scientist," her father returned. His green eyes flashed. "You have embarrassed me for the last time, Penelope. You will no longer darken my doorstop for these conferences. By the time word of what you have done spreads throughout scientific circles, you will never be allowed to present one of _Peter's_ papers again." Winston Hillsworth was fairly frothing at the mouth. "I only invite you to these affairs so that you can find another husband, and now you have ruined even that small chance. No one within my circles will wish to have you now."

"I would not marry a man who possesses less intellect in his entire body than I do in my right hand," Penelope retorted, smoothing her skirt calmly for effect. She was seething inside. How dare these men think they are better than her, when she was a more accomplished research theorist than her husband? "Are you quite done, Father?"

"No, I am not done! You are going to march into the dining room and pretend to graciously apologize to my friends."

"Are you mad? I will do no such thing!" Penelope snorted – an action which only increased the apoplectic color of her father's visage. "You would have me apologize to the men who insulted your daughter. You are no father of mine, Winston Hillsworth!"

Her father took a step back as though she had slapped him. "Then see how you will enjoy your life without the annual stipend you receive from this estate!"

"An idle threat, Father. I live on my stipend from Peter's estate; your stipend is given to Vertiline, and she is no more deserving of your punishment than I am!" She felt the precarious control on her temper begin to slip, and Penelope took a deep breath. "You should leave, Father, before we say things that we truly regret." Up to this point, it was a variation of the older argument. "I shall not be attending dinner."

"As you wish, daughter!" The sneer in his voice was palpable, but Winston Hillsworth left her room almost as quickly as he had entered it.

For the first time since cruel Fate had decided to reunite her with the Winchesters on a carriage ride never to be borne, Penelope found herself wishing that her visitor had actually _been_ the scoundrel himself. She sighed, catching her breath. Penelope grabbed her sketchpad and charcoal – she had just enough time to settle herself over a quiet dinner in the garret before meeting Vertiline for cribbage. Penelope hoped that there was at least one of the meat pies from lunch still waiting for her in the larder, and set out on her way.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_If I am required to listen to Samuel prattle about poetry for another moment, I will surely go mad. It is bad enough being within the walls of this wretched house, and the memories that follow us with every footstep. _

_I do not necessarily have cause to regret his feelings. I am certain that the lamented Miss Moore would wish him to live, instead of living in her memory. However, this development is certainly ill-timed._

_I had such high hopes for today, in all faith. My grand experiment was flourishing – I had already ascertained by kissing the maids that widows are, indeed, more passionate than unmarried girls. Kissing Penelope simply proved this point once more. I do wonder how Penny learned of those tiny assignations; nothing more than conversations ending with a kiss. That woman has a certain knack for sharp speech and a skill for uncovering mysteries best left hidden._

_My only desire at this point is to leave this forsaken countryside and return to the Continent – or even to London, where certainly there is company more comfortable than any I will find here. This was to have been a simple job, the letter claimed; find the werewolf and slay it. It had perpetrated a reign of terror against the farm animals it found in its wake – and three humans, at last count._

_Nothing is farther from the truth, I am afraid. _

_The werewolf's death did not solve the problem; it has only served to deepen the inscrutable activities within Westshire. Between the symbols that Samuel was unable to recognize on that poor boy's body and the secondary wound that Penny discovered underneath the creature's claw, I believe that we have stumbled into a much larger mystery than the letter we received purported to relay._

_Father must have known that we would do whatever possible to save these people, but it irks me nonetheless that he would send us here with little warning as to what we would find. _

_Our next step, no doubt, is to begin researching the symbols. Unfortunately, Samuel is too enamored of Miss Lucas to conduct the necessary bookwork. I am certain he will lay the blame directly at my feet, given his lack of understanding regarding my experiment. If Samuel does not come to his senses by morning, I will begin researching the symbols myself – a particularly flawed position, given I have no patience for it and little skill. I am __not a scholar. _

_But if it is what the task requires, I must do it. I am a Winchester, and this is – for all that we wander through Europe – our home._

_In truth, I am of two minds regarding our soujourn at Highchurch Manor. It does not feel entirely real to be walking within its halls again after twenty years, but still my footsteps bring me to the garret – the one place within the house which gives a full view of my old home. I can never return there, yet still I ensconce myself in this room to stare at the broken ruins of my childhood._

_Even the room smells the same as it had, slightly musty from the rain. If I close my eyes, I can feel Penny Hillsworth's hand in mine, as though a glimmer of her still sits next to me on this rattletrap of a bed. We were the ones who moved it underneath the room's only window with the help of a young man I now suspect was Bootsie._

_And Penelope is here. Now. The one good memory that remains of this place. _

_Enough. I will not sit here and write about __that, no matter how much Samuel's maudlin behavior has caused me to remember the one time I felt as he did – about a girl I had not seen since she was four, the a girl who sent me a letter on my sixteenth birthday. _

_It would be a more appropriate use of my time to determine a fitting course of action should Samuel remain within his lovesick state. I do not believe he will, but coming up with some type of active plan with which to address our current task will certainly keep me from descending into as infatuated a condition as my younger brother. That would not do. That would not do at all. I have no time for such things beyond fleeting assignations._

_It serves no purpose to reflect upon what might have been, and I am sick and weary of our fruitless search for Father – but I must persevere for Samuel, for mother and for all the innocents that we will save in our journey. Perhaps I shall look up Milly or Molly or whatever her_

**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

It was the rattle of a key in the door that alerted Deane of his visitor – interrupting his reflections. The door was being locked from the inside, and soft footsteps pattered into the room. He set down his journal on the chipped table near the bed, and pulled his small pistol from his side holster, finger on the trigger as a short figure stepped from behind a large bureau dresser into the light from the room's only candle lamp.

_Bugger!_

Penelope Harcourt stared at him across the mere feet that separated them, green eyes wide as she focused on the gun in Deane's hand. She coughed, finding her voice as they gawked at each other. "You would be doing me a very great favor, Mr. Winchester, if you would simply pull the trigger." Penny was pale, but she softened her statement with a wan smile.

Deane gave a small laugh, setting his gun back into its holster. "I should be unsurprised to find you here, Mrs. Harcourt." The widow had a sketchpad tucked under her arm, and a plate filled with meat pies in her left hand. Mary must have kept some back for her when he found the cook in the kitchen. The plate Mary had given him contained half of what the widow carried, a combination of savory and sweet pastries. "I shall leave you to your contemplations."

Penelope walked slowly across the room, and set the plate of pies on his empty one. "I cannot possibly eat this entire meal by myself, sir. Surely you are still hungry?"

"I am fine, good lady," Deane began, until his rebellious stomach rumbled its own reply. She simply smiled at that, and lifted the plate so that he could reach the nearest pasty. "Certainly you are not suggesting that we eat together in the garret, Mrs. Harcourt?"

"Of all the occasions you could find to address me by my given name, Deane Winchester, this seems to me to be the most appropriate," Penelope replied with a mature version of the smile she had when placing flowers in his brother's cradle. "We are alone in a place where we will remain undisturbed and, astonishingly, we are not engaged in a skirmish of wits," the widow added. She shrugged and set the plate down. "As you were here first, I shall leave you to _your_ contemplations."

"Wait!" Deane grabbed her right hand as Penelope turned to walk away. "I would be honored if you would join me for dinner," he added, as her green-gold eyes focused on his face once more. His mind concentrated on the only question she asked in a letter written over a decade ago; he kept it still, lodged between the binding of his journal. _Do you remember me, old friend?_ Deane sighed. "I never forgot you, Penny." The words escaped from him. "But I could never reply to your letter – my life is not…" Deane shook his head. _My life is not one I can share. _That was not an admission he was prepared to make, even to Penny Hillsworth. "I did remember you," he added.

Her sketchbook fell to the floor, followed immediately by a piece of charcoal she was holding. Before Deane could think to stop her, Penny Hillsworth – _Penelope Harcourt_ – placed her hands on either side of his face and bent over to kiss one of his freckles. Deane shifted his head so that their lips met, an action he had practiced with so many other women while ignoring the fleeting memory of her – how Deane Winchester had once planned this moment, his triumphant return from their long hunt with his mother avenged to claim the one thing he had never been allowed to bring with him.

The day he learned Penny Hillsworth had married, news grudgingly relayed by his father, Deane indulged in no small amount of absinthe and woke up the next morning with a red-haired woman twice his age whose name he could not even recall.

Deane pulled Penelope onto his lap, arms encircling her waist as he began trailing the soft pulse on her neck with his tongue. Penelope moaned softly, hands reaching up to undo her hair. It fell around them in a dark coil, spreading into curls as it tumbled about her shoulders. He drew back from her neck, catching her eyes with his own. "We cannot do this, Penny."

"Do you wish to stop, Deane?" Penny was brushing his freckles with her lips, as lightly as falling snowflakes.

"Blast it, no!"

"Then do not stop," she said, bringing her mouth up to kiss him once more. Deane's hands moved slowly up her back, undoing each button on their way to her neck. Penelope gave a small sigh as he slipped the garment off her shoulders, smooth as porcelain under his fingers. She was wearing a black silk corset, bosom swelling appealingly above it. Deane kissed the point of her cleavage, licking the salty sweat between Penelope's twin orbs.

Penelope shifted off his lap and stood swiftly, stepping quickly out of her gown. She kicked it unceremoniously from her feet, clad in white boots, with a fervor that surprised him; Deane would have suspected Penelope of meticulously folding the garment and setting it safely away. Instead, she reached out her hands and pulled Deane from the small bed, slipping his braces over his shoulders before pulling his shirt from his trousers. Small fingers worked the shirt's buttons, and Penelope pushed it down his arms.

It fell. Before the garment had even settled onto the dusty floorboards, Penelope was tracing the scars on his chest with her lips – a feathery touch often followed by the gentle pass of her tongue. Deane had forgotten the battles which scarred him, but remembrance of each flared within him as she invoked each physical record of the Winchesters' crusade. A fight with a vampire. The pouka that chased Samuel through what seemed the entirety of Cook County. A succubus claw taken straight to the chest, one sliver remaining inside. So many others.

Her questing fingers settled on his trouser buttons, and Deane caught her hands. "Penny," he murmured. "I need to get – "

"No," Penelope returned softly, lips now settled into the crook of his neck as she stood on her toes to reach him. Her breath was warm. "You do not. I – " Her voice cracked. She would speak no more of it, but the sorrow in her voice was evident. Deane's only response was to kiss her deeply, her mouth opening completely under his with a breathy sigh.

Penelope's fingers returned to his trouser buttons. Deane grasped both sides of her corset, attempting to remove the garment with a mighty pull.

Nothing happened.

"It is laced up the back, Deane." Penelope's voice had become husky as Deane's trousers plummeted past his hips, pooling around his ankles.

He laughed. "But imagine how terribly impressed you would be were I able to rip the garment."

"I am already terribly impressed," Penelope returned. She reached past the waist of his undergarment – Deane did not believe in wearing undershirts, despite Samuel's protestations – and likewise pushed it past his hips. She encircled Deane's pleasure-pivot with her hand.

"If you do not stop – " Deane managed, gritting his teeth. He was at his wits end, barely capable of forcibly grabbing her arms and pinning them behind Penelope's back. He claimed her mouth as she gasped, a low chuckle in her throat. Once she was suitably occupied, arms around his neck, Deane systematically pulled the posts from the loops of the corset's busk as she continued to kiss him, sucking once on his lower lip. She released her hold around his neck long enough to allow him measure to remove the corset.

"Dear God," he muttered, looking down at her. Her ruby-tipped globes greeted him underneath her loose chemise. With one fluid motion, he ripped the thin fabric. "A-ha," he said softly, its pieces fluttering to the floor. "I have challenged the chemise, and proven myself victorious," Deane added. Penelope giggled. Deane stepped out of his trousers and underthings, and then pushed her backwards onto the small bed.

Penelope Harcourt looked most enticing wearing nothing but her bloomers and a pair of white pointed-toe boots.

"How could I ever forget you?" Deane's voice was rough in his throat. How many mature permutations of her childish face had he devised to nurse himself through long days upon receipt of her letter? Father must have known he kept it, only telling him that Penelope Hillsworth was a remnant of their former life. _We all leave behind something, son. _Women across the Continent shared those incarnations of Penelope Hillsworth's face every night they cried out in his arms. "I always knew you would be beautiful, Penny," Deane added. "I just never suspected you would turn out so short."

Penelope Harcourt would have frowned at that statement, witty barb at the ready. Penny simply held out her hands and pulled him onto the bed with her. Deane began nipping at the responsive hollows of Penelope's neck, while he slowly eased her bloomers past her hips. "Happily for me," she whispered, breath flickering against his ear, "you grew out of your awkward looks." Deane snorted as her bloomers drifted to the floor past her knees, right hand bracing her body while the left opened her sweet intersection. "You were a strange-looking boy," she gasped.

"You constantly speak at the most inappropriate times," Deane replied, watching her arch her back. "One could consider that a flaw," he added, his voice rasping.

Green-gold eyes unfocused. "Why are you not piercing me?" Penelope cried.

"As you wish."

They fell full into the grail of pleasure, Penelope giving a sharp cry while Deane succumbed to the melting glow of sweet death – groaning into her hair. The way she looked, laying beneath him, was almost enough to make him dare Fate itself – to claim her despite the eventual outcome; Deane refused to close his eyes, knowing the next thing he would see was her body enflamed. That could never happen. She was his, if only for the ephemeral days of the current mission, and that would be enough. It would have to be enough.

"I fear you have ruined me, Deane," Penelope whispered, arms coming round to embrace him.

Deane smiled wryly at that. "I tried to stop, Penny."

"Oh, there was no stopping." She sighed, pulling her arms more tightly around him. "If you had stayed, perhaps…" Penelope's voice trailed off, catching in her throat. "But you could not," she added. "And you will leave again."

"We are not leaving immediately, Penny. For as long as we stay, I – " Deane nearly choked on the words, reminding himself most keenly of Samuel Winchester at his most maudlin. "I am yours," he said with a cough, acutely embarrassed. _A part of me will always be yours._ Her face would greet him each night, memorized hungrily from need, but Deane would never – could never – tell her that. No matter the arms that surrounded him, the face would always be hers.

"That depends entirely on your answer to my next question, Mr. Winchester." Penelope's voice was tinged with something of its usual tartness, but she tempered it by kissing his shoulder. "Exactly _why_ were you kissing every woman on the estate," she asked.

He almost blushed, felt the heat rushing into his ears. "I had a theory that widows kissed more passionately than unmarried girls."

"That is a hypothesis, Deane. A theory is based on a viable hypothesis, which is why it is tested. One needs to determine if the argument itself is valid." There was humor underlying her tone, and Deane found it much more appealing to be lectured by a pretty woman laying naked underneath him than his bespectacled younger brother. "And yours is not. You refrained from including the other widow at Highchurch in your experiment," Penelope added. "Mary thinks you are very handsome, if a trifle unmannered."

"The cook?" He snorted. "Are you mad, woman? She is sixty years old if she is a day."

"She is almost seventy, actually." She looked at him thoughtfully, wicked grin spreading across her countenance. "I suppose there is also Mrs. Jennings," Penelope returned. She suddenly shifted underneath him. "Oh, no! Mrs. Jennings is playing cribbage this evening with my cousin. I was supposed to meet them after my dinner."

"Technically, Penny, you have not engaged in dinner."

She smiled up at him suddenly, eyes sparkling. "You are indeed correct, sir." Penelope reached up to kiss him on the chin. "If I did not know otherwise, Deane Winchester, I would bow to your apparent genius."

"You are, without doubt, the most fiendishly clever woman I have ever known." He moved on top of her. "But if I do not reposition myself, Penny, my back will be permanently locked into this rather uncomfortable position." Penelope slid from underneath him as Deane turned. She stepped off the bed as he braced his back against the rickety headboard, wrought iron cold against his skin.

Penelope fetched her sketchpad and charcoal, sitting across from him at the foot of the bed. Her hair fell around her, brushing the points of her breasts with soft curls. She opened her sketchpad, gazing at him thoughtfully. The charcoal moved slowly at first, and then with quicker strokes. Deane coughed, and her exquisite eyes focused on his face. "Is it not improper for a woman, regardless of her station, to draw such a picture?" he asked.

"You will be wearing boots."

"Ah." Deane had taken them off when he first came into the room, wanting to relax upon the bed. He twisted in place, legs dangling off the edge, and slipped on his boots. He was going to tie the laces, but a small cough and a shake of Penny's head elicited a simple shrug. "Give me your feet, Penelope." She did so, and he slowly removed her white boots – massaging her insteps with his thumbs, fingers brushing up her legs. Her boots dropped to the floor as he shifted on the bed, Penelope's toes curling against his hand. She shivered like a cat. "Do they not say that you draw best what you know?" Deane added.

"I believe the truth is that you write best what you know," Penelope replied.

Deane reached forward, gently removing the sketchpad and charcoal from her hands. He set them carefully on the floor, and grinned at her. "When we are done, you will have dreadfully salacious memoirs." Penelope flushed, eyes centered on his boots. He took her hands and pulled her towards him.

_I **never** forgot you, Penny – and, now, you will never forget **me**._

* * *

A/N:

The boots. I think we've all established why there are boots, but I feel they must be mentioned regardless. Jensen wore his OWN boots. Ahem…

Rules of conversation within the Victorian era were strict. Given their ages, it was highly improper for Deane to introduce himself to Vertiline without a chaperone. (Truly, it was improper for Vertiline to introduce herself to Samuel in Chapter Two, for this same reason.) Ironically, Penelope would have been considered an appropriate chaperone because of her status as a widow.

The "fan language" Deane mentions is, indeed, true. Because of the rules regarding conversation, it was devised to allow unmarried men and women to communicate with each other. Shutting the fan completely and abruptly was considered a signal of hatred; the fact that she did it three times to Deane was an indication that Verd was very put out with him.

The role of women in Victorian society – even as late as this story is set – was likewise strict. Her father's reaction to learning what Penelope had done is most likely accurate for what could have happened if such an occurrence were true.

So, the corset-rippage. Knowing how corsets are constructed, I found it very difficult to justify Deane doing the actual deed. However, it should be pointed out that neither he nor Penelope were very proper in their attire. Deane should be wearing an undershirt, and instead opts solely for the pants. Likewise, Penelope should be wearing petticoats at the least, despite the fact that I could never justify her wearing a bustle outside of an extremely formal affair (such as a dance), but I suspect she finds them terribly restrictive. I felt so sorry for the poor boy and his inability to rip apart a garment constructed from multiple layers of strong fabric and whalebone, that I let him tackle the chemise and win. To be fair, as this is Deane Winchester, I am certain he will devise an equally brilliant scheme to eventually perform true corset rippage.

Birth control did exist during the era, although condoms (which I suspect Deane does still use during this era) were expensive. Penelope stating they are not required was her admission to being barren – not the best state for a Victorian woman, regardless, where the ability to bear children was considered part of her "duty" to her family.

All erotic terms 100 authentically Victorian. (Except for the few I made up, so if you can figure them out, I will be duly impressed.) I'm so the research girl.

Sadly, the more (ahem) robust scene of corset rippage is at my fanfic journal.


	4. Within Which Secrets are Revealed

_**By Gaslight**_

Twenty-two years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home. Since that day, a bereaved John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick upon his family; raising his sons to follow in his footsteps.

Armed with Samuel's inventions and Deane's uncanny ability to bring down any prey, the brothers Winchester travel through Great Britain and Europe, following clues they receive in the form of mysterious letters — and Samuel's disturbing visions.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. Likewise, the idea of the weapons they use owes more to Jules Verne than to my own devising. And while Mr. Winchester's peculiar mode of transport has not yet made an appearance, its particular execution also does not belong to me. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England. 

Characters: Deane Winchester, Samuel Winchester, Penelope Harcourt, Vertiline Lucas, Winston Hillsworth, Francis Templeton, Mrs. Jennings

Pairings (Overall): Deane/OFCs, Samuel/OFC

Rating (Overall): M

Rating: T (Naughty Victorian language, but nothing truly untoward.)

Summary: Vertiline discovers several secrets within the grounds of Highchurch Manor, including the large wooly creature rampaging through the Rose Garden. Meanwhile, Samuel discovers several secrets of his own – not the least of which is the ability to contrive an explosion that even Deane Winchester would appreciate.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Within Which Secrets are Revealed, and a Pawn Is Removed From the Board**

Dinner was undeniably the most tedious meal Vertiline had yet suffered in Mrs. Jennings' presence. Several of Uncle Winston's colleagues spent the entire soup course in a veritable outrage – some even quit the table when it became evident that Penelope was not going to appear and contritely express regret for her unwomanly behavior. Uncle Winston had tried, of course, but he seemed particularly subdued in his apologies; one who knew him well might even think he was feeling remorseful.

Nor did he fare well presiding over a half-empty table. According to Mrs. Jennings, no less than three of his guests had left immediately after Penelope's lecture – outraged, no doubt, by that peculiar accusation about Practitioners. Vertiline frowned; she should have taken the opportunity to ask her cousin what that meant before their argument. At least then she might have some idea as to what was actually being discussed at dinner, between furtive glances and thinly veiled statements.

The old widow herself was bursting with gossip. "I hear she stormed out of the room with nary an apology," Mrs. Jennings directed towards Templeton. She sighed dramatically. "That is what happens when one is raised without a woman's guidance."

Vertiline slammed her fork onto the table more forcefully than she had intended. There was a cough at Templeton's left, and Samuel Winchester's piercing eyes were suddenly focused on the old gossip. _No doubt taken in by the idiocy of her hat. _"That is quite the accusation, Mrs. Jennings, considering you were not in the room," he said.

"But I was," Templeton returned with a sniff. "Mrs. Harcourt did storm out of the room."

"There we shall beg to differ," Samuel replied. If she had not been kindly disposed to him before, Vertiline surely would have been so now. He was defending her cousin, just as he had earlier in the day. "Mrs. Harcourt was treated abominably by men who believe their reputations allow them to do so. I would be ashamed to treat so good a lady in such a manner." His smile was cold. "Surely one who calls herself friend would be more understanding."

Mrs. Jennings looked as though she had been slapped, and then smiled sweetly at the scientist. "You are, of course, correct, sir. It is just that we are so used to Mrs. Harcourt's tempestuous nature that we take the opportunity to commiserate amongst ourselves. It would be no different than my discussing Mr. Templeton's gambling or Miss Lucas' flirting."

"Or Mrs. Jennings' inability to go through an entire meal without gossiping," Vertiline added. She smiled ingenuously at the widow, and Templeton laughed aloud. Mrs. Jennings' mouth pursed as it had when she took her first mouthful of curry. "Come, Mrs. Jennings, we are all such dear friends that surely we accept each other's shortcomings," Vertiline added. "You know what the Bard says about friendship." Her blue eyes flickered towards Templeton.

Her suitor turned towards her with a familiar expression on his face. _He only knows three of Shakespeare's sonnets; I may as well give him the opportunity to display that knowledge when possible._ Samuel Winchester, however, had started in his chair. He pushed his glasses atop his nose, and leaned forward curiously. "So you are a lover of poetry, Miss Lucas?" he asked before Templeton could speak.

"I am fond of the Romantics," Vertiline said slowly, wishing she had paid more attention during Penelope's monthly poetry readings.

"I much prefer the poets of our age," Mr. Samuel replied. If he realized that Templeton's face was turning bright red while staring at him, Samuel Winchester took no notice. "Tennyson is my particular favorite, although I also greatly admire Gerard Manley Hopkins."

"As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame" Vertiline said softly. "As tumbled over rim in roundy wells stones ring." She loved the imagery in that poem, even keeping a small volume of Hopkin's poetry in her room at Fillmont.

"Like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's bow finds tongue to fling out broad its name." Samuel Winchester positively beamed at her. "There is something to be said for a truly well-crafted sonnet, Miss Lucas."

"You are quite right, sir," Templeton said, staring at Vertiline as though she were a traitor. _In a way, I suppose I am._ She would rather spend ten minutes discussing poetry with Mr. Samuel than an hour listening to Templeton prattle on about the subject. "I, myself, am fond of Shakespeare," her suitor added.

"He is undeniably the master of the sonnet," Mr. Samuel agreed, "But there is something to be said for the fresh perspective of this age." He smiled at Vertiline. "I wouldn't be surprised, Miss Lucas, if you did not write a sonnet or two in your lifetime."

"When I was younger," she answered slowly. Vertiline had not written a poem since she was twelve, and she had only done so because Penelope had convinced her that every lovelorn girl wrote a poem or a letter to their intended. Penelope mailed her letter, instead of placing it in the memory chest where Verd had left her poems. "I have been considering a novel," she added. Mrs. Jennings' eyes widened. That was something she had only told Penelope, but if George Eliot could become a published novelist, so would Vertiline Lucas. _And I care not how scandalous that appears to the old gossip!_

"Miss Lucas' head is filled with such visions that any novel sprung from her delicate fingers will be a delight to read." Templeton's hand snaked forward, as though he would cover hers sitting next to her fork on the table. Vertiline pulled her hand back slowly.

"I thought to write something similar to _Frankenstein_," Vertiline returned. Mrs. Jennings made a horrified sound. "A tale of brothers who haunt the night, fighting against those creatures man was never meant to see."

She could not have timed it more perfectly had she tried. Samuel Winchester had just lifted his glass of water to his lips. He somehow managed to swallow, but water dribbled down his chin. Mr. Samuel quickly reached for his napkin, but not before Mrs. Jennings smacked Vertiline on the arm. "You impertinent girl! Have you no shame?" The widow snickered. "A novel about brothers who hunt monsters," the widow added, shaking her head. "Who would believe such a thing? You've given poor Mr. Samuel a fright."

"Not so much of a fright as I _could_," Vertiline returned. He was watching her with a wary look in his blue-green eyes. _So now he knows that Penelope and I do not keep secrets._ "I could tell the truth about him, Mrs. Jennings."

"The truth?" Samuel Winchester's voice sounded querulous.

"Surely you have not forgotten how you trounced my cousin in cribbage." Vertiline leaned forward, picking up her fork. Her appetite had returned. "I've decided that if I have any chance of winning against Mrs. Jennings and Templeton, Mr. Samuel, it will only be with you as my partner."

"Partner?" His blue-green eyes looked startled, and he actually pulled on his collar.

"A full partner," Vertiline replied. "It will be a difficult challenge, Mr. Samuel. They are positively _beastly_ when they play together on the same side."

"And Mrs. Harcourt is not likely to join us," Templeton added. His own expression was grim, as though he was looking forward to the contest that Vertiline was proposing. _To prove himself to me, or to Mr. Samuel._ "I overheard one of the maids say that she had taken a plate of dinner up to the garret."

"Sulking, no doubt," Mrs. Jennings observed.

Verd narrowed her eyes; Mr. Samuel's had gone just as hard, and the smile he gave Mrs. Jennings should have chilled her to the bone but Mrs. Jennings had the common sense of a gnat. _Consider her choice in clothing._ "I would be happy to act as your partner in Mrs. Harcourt's absence, Miss Lucas." His gaze turned towards her. "Your _full_ partner."

Vertiline suddenly found herself blushing – reduced to a young girl by the expression in Samuel Winchester's blue-green eyes. She steeled her voice, lowering her eyes. "I would be horribly disappointed were you _not _to be my full partner, Mr. Samuel," she added demurely.

Samuel Winchester was clever enough to understand the message that their cribbage opponents blithely ignored; Templeton had begun discussing strategies with Mrs. Jennings. Vertiline sighed. Francis Templeton may have been an excellent match by Society's standards, but Samuel Winchester was proving to be a different type of match entirely.

_The man I would choose for myself._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Cribbage was, by anyone's estimation, as much a game of chance as it was of skill. That being the case, however, it was also true that some personages are born with an overabundance of skill – such that it made up for bad luck. Samuel Winchester was one of the latter, sad to say; the death of his mother was not a particularly good omen where luck was concerned. Miss Vertiline Lucas, however, was overflowing with good luck.

Together, they made an excellent team.

Mrs. Jennings and the equally insufferable Mr. Templeton attempted to rally, but when faced with his superior intellect and Miss Lucas' shimmering fortune, the irascible duo was thwarted each time they attempted to take the game. Samuel had to admit that there was something particularly satisfying about any action which pulled a pursed-lipped expression out of the widow. _As though she swallowed one of those grotesque fake flowers on her hat._

His disdain for the widow was nothing compared to the ill will that Samuel Winchester wished upon Francis Templeton. The way he treated Vertiline Lucas – a young lady so accomplished that she was able to relay her knowledge of the Winchesters' secret under the guise of a novel she wished to write – was downright obscene. If Samuel Winchester had been graced with the luck to win the good will of Vertiline Lucas, he would never treat her as anything but the intelligent young woman she was – beautiful, with an underlying foundation of steel.

Knowing the Winchesters' secret had not shaken the girl. Even Penelope Harcourt had fainted.

He smiled, remembering the expression in Miss Lucas' eyes when she wrapped her admonition of Mrs. Jennings into a good-natured response to the old widow's jab. Samuel saw no reason why Deane should not like her. _He probably thought to kiss her, like she was one of the maids._ Samuel suspected that Miss Lucas would not take kindly to his brother's affections.

"I believe that would put us past one hundred and twenty points, Mr. Samuel!" Miss Lucas' smile was so bright, her blue eyes themselves seemed to sparkle with it.

Templeton frowned. "For the fifth time this evening," he said sourly.

"Are you quite certain you have not played together before?" Mrs. Jennings asked. Her beady eyes looked at Samuel suspiciously. "Or did one of you cheat?"

"Not everyone raised without the benefit of a woman's guidance is a cheat, Mrs. Jennings," Samuel retorted. He could not help himself. He knew it was impolitic, a reaction unworthy of him. The old widow was simply trying to bait him. _Blast! I am spending too much time with Deane._

Vertiline Lucas was nodding, the room's light iridescent against her blonde curls. "It is just as unfair to state that anyone who plays cards is a cheat." Her blue eyes focused on Mrs. Jennings' left sleeve. Samuel glimpsed the sharp edge of a card before the widow shifted her arm. _She is bloody brilliant!_

"Too true, Vertiline." Templeton shot Samuel a nasty glance, as though he were claiming Vertiline Lucas as a possession. "And to the victor inevitably goes the spoils." The seedy little man was grinning at her. "Would you care to accompany me on a moonlit stroll through the gardens?" Mr. Templeton asked.

Miss Lucas' color paled, and she glanced once at Samuel – who looked studiously away. "I would be honored, Templeton. The Rose Garden is particularly beautiful this time of year. There's even a replica of Stonehenge off the path to it."

"Stonehenge?" Samuel asked the question before he could stop himself.

Vertiline Lucas nodded. "Penelope and I attempted to recreate Stonehenge when we were children." Her eyes softened. "Bootsie helped us collect the rocks for it." She appeared as though she were on the verge of tears, her eyes shining, and then Miss Lucas swallowed. "I would be pleased to show you such remnants of my childhood," she added.

Templeton snorted. "I believe that the walk to the garden will suffice, Vertiline."

Miss Lucas nodded and followed Francis Templeton out of the room. _The ass!_ Samuel was fairly seething. Mrs. Jennings was staring at him over her spectacles, lips working slowly as though she were thinking about something important. He rose abruptly to his feet. "I bid you good evening, Mrs. Jennings. My thanks for your company this evening."

He did not give the intolerable woman an opportunity to respond. Samuel bowed quickly and went through the door. She was chuckling softly to herself. _Another story she will be relaying before breakfast. _ Samuel frowned. A monster could still be roaming the countryside around Highchurch, and a beautiful blonde-haired girl had just been taken outside by a thorough scoundrel.

The Winchesters should be on patrol.

Deane was not in their room, and his bed was undisturbed. As early as it was, Samuel was unsurprised. Were they in a town, Deane would no doubt be up carousing at the local bar – using his not inconsiderable charms on one of the serving girls. Westshire was too far for such a jaunt, which meant that his brother was _somewhere_ on Highchurch's grounds. It was simply a matter of knowing where to look. _Such as where the maids sleep._

Samuel walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, hoping that Mary would be of some assistance. He had meant to check on the woman, at any rate. Loud whoops were coming from the Billiards Room, however, and Samuel knew from personal experience that Deane was often in close proximity to alcohol; his older brother was particularly fond of whiskey – only absinthe caused him pause.

He opened the door to the room, peering inside. Those Practitioners who still remained were sprawled in chairs, lounging as they spoke animatedly amongst themselves. Mr. Jenkins gave him something of the evil eye, and called out, "Her knight in shining armor graces us with his presence!"

Lord Hillsworth raised his head from the table upon which it was resting, but said nothing. His head shook upon his neck, and he toppled once more onto the wood. Samuel shook his head. "I do not suppose any of you fine gentlemen have seen my brother this evening?" he asked loudly.

"Perhaps you should check in the servants' quarters," a man Samuel did not recognize shouted towards him.

He snorted. "Right," he muttered under his breath. "I thank you for your pains, gentlemen," Samuel said more loudly. _And may your stomachs rot from the inside out as you drink._

Samuel turned on his heel and walked back outside. He had no intention of actually going to the servants' quarters in search of his brother. If Deane actually was sparking with one of the maids, he did not wish to know. Not that he had any illusions regarding his older brother's behavior, but perhaps Deane's apparent infatuation with Mrs. Harcourt would be enough for him to refrain from his normal lascivious behavior.

Sighing, Samuel began heading back towards their room. _Samuel, you idiot!_ Miss Lucas had told him exactly how to find her, where to go to rescue her from that supercilious prig. _There's even a replica of Stonehenge off the path to it. _ His step quickened, and he knew what he needed to do. There might be more than one monster on the grounds, and one of them was most likely walking on Miss Lucas' arm.

A quick stop in the room to pick up his night goggles – hidden in the satchel at his side – and a pellet gun armed with the sticky web bullets was all Samuel required in the way of readiness. He sincerely hoped that he caught Mr. Templeton in the act of something untoward, simply for the pleasure of firing at him. The vision of Miss Lucas protesting Mr. Templeton's unseemly advances spurred Samuel out the back door and down the only path.

Samuel pulled out his night goggles and slipped them on his head, adjusting the light so that it settled into the daylight spectrum. He walked quickly down the path, pellet gun braced in his hand as he strode near the path. The replica of Stonehenge was visible to the left, and he could see rose bushes off in the distance.

Voices drifted towards him, and Samuel recognized the soft timbre of Miss Lucas. He snuck closer, following behind them. The couple was walking side-by-side; Samuel noted with a grin that Miss Lucas had not given her improper suitor her arm, which showed an uncommon amount of sense in Samuel's estimation. She was laughing softly, although at her own joke or something Templeton said, Samuel could not tell.

A low growl rumbled to his right. Samuel stopped in his tracks. A wooly creature nearly the size of a draft horse was stalking the couple, eyes seemingly focused on Miss Lucas' shining hair. Its face was vaguely canine, with eyes as red as any werewolf, and jaws that dripped of saliva. Hissing and steam erupted from the ground wherever drops from its jaws fell. Samuel swallowed. This was no mere beast. This was a monster that looked like it came from the pits of Hell itself.

And it was stalking Vertiline Lucas – its weight shifting as though to pounce on her. "Behind you!" Samuel bellowed, rushing forward. He popped out the web pellet and pulled one of the firebombs he still had in his waistcoat pocket.

Miss Lucas whirled as the monster bounded towards her, pushing Francis Templeton out of harm's way before dropping to the ground. Templeton took one look at the creature rushing towards them, and howled – a deep shriek that sounded more like it should have come from Vertiline Lucas. _If she were a normal girl._

"Get back to the house! Quickly!" Samuel slipped the firebomb into the pellet gun and aimed. Flame burst against the creature's coat as the firebomb impacted, and the stench of burning fur filled the garden.

"I won't leave you!" Vertiline cried. She did not even appear perturbed when Samuel stepped into view, night goggles on his head.

The beast had turned to look at Samuel, its eyes wild. "You must get yourself back to the house, Miss Lucas!" She did not need to know that the Winchesters had never come across such a creature before. Miss Lucas was not going to move. Samuel loaded another firebomb into the gun. "Mr. Templeton requires your assistance," he added.

Vertiline Lucas's eyes grew hard, and she nodded her head. "I will wait for you in the kitchen," she said, taking Mr. Templeton by the arm and pulling him gently to his feet. She looked over her shoulder, and called out, "Take care, sir." Not once did she even mention his name.

With a broad yell, Samuel fired another shot at the beast – it shrieked and began bounding away from him as the second patch of its skin burst into flame. He chased it, screaming curses such that his brother would have been impressed. Robbed of its quarry and burning as it ran, the beast howled to the sky. It moved so quickly that Samuel lost track of it, until even the burning fur could no longer be seen with his heat sprectrum lenses. He spent a full hour trying to find it, before turning back to meet Miss Lucas in the kitchen.

_What a woman!_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Vertiline paced between the table and the back door, glancing towards it furtively while she waited. It had been over an hour since she had left Samuel Winchester in the Rose Garden, chasing the Beast that she had seen in her dreams. Wharrow had taken the shrieking Templeton to his room, with a full quarter of brandy for medicinal purposes, which left Vertiline to her own devices.

Mr. Samuel was far beyond even her expectations. Penelope had not been lying, nor had her sudden obsession with Deane Winchester colored her cousin's reasoning in any manner. The Winchesters hunted monsters. A Winchester had saved her from one, and a Winchester could teach her how to save Penelope from the fate Vertiline beheld in her vision.

She wondered how she would look, brandishing that odd little gun and screaming after the creature with that spiked helmet on her head. Vertiline smiled – of course she would need to wear a man's clothes, her hair tied back into a simple braid for ease of movement.

The rattling of the door interrupted her thoughts, and Samuel Winchester stumbled into the room. Vertiline gasped – whether from the expression in his eyes when he saw her or the stumbling of her own heart within her chest, she could not tell. He was no longer carrying the strange devices he used in battle, but his legs were shaking from exhaustion.

"I've had tea brewing," she said softly, pulling a chair out from the table. "Are you not thirsty, Mr. Samuel?"

His smile was brilliant. "I would love tea, Miss Lucas." Samuel Winchester walked slowly to the chair, setting his weight down upon it with a sigh. She went to grab the teapot, but he was quick and was already pouring her tea before she could even grasp the handle.

"Do you take sugar and milk, sir? A lemon, perhaps?" Vertiline asked. "We do not normally use them ourselves for tea, but I can find some in the pantry if you wish."

"There is no need, Miss Lucas. I am fine." Samuel Winchester held his hands around the cup. He glanced around, and leaned forward with a mischievous look on his face. "Although it is, perhaps, best for you that Mr. Templeton did not hear such a statement." Mr. Samuel smiled, and added, "For surely you would be forced to endure such statements in regards to your inner sweetness being an ample substitute for sugar in your tea."

"Mr. Samuel! I am shocked!"

He lowered his eyes. "My apologies, Miss Lucas. I meant no disrespect."

"You most certainly did," Vertiline retorted. She returned his smile. "And the man has certainly earned your scorn. He is not one third the man you are."

Mr. Samuel chuckled. "You are more of a man than Francis Templeton." He looked as though he were going to ask another question, but then settled against it – leaning back in his chair with a sigh. He sipped on his tea, and then set the cup back on the table. "I thank you for the tea, Miss Lucas."

"Do not leave!" Her voice was sharper than she intended. Samuel Winchester's eyes focused on her face. "There are so many things I wish to ask you."

"About hunting?" Mr. Samuel frowned. "It was not my first choice of employment."

"Among other things," Vertiline replied. She placed her folded hands on top of the table. "Did you not go to Oxford?"

Mr. Samuel nodded. "It was at Oxford that I met your uncle, Miss Lucas. He introduced me to the world of the Practitioner."

"Practitioner?" She frowned. "That is what Penelope called the men in Uncle's study." Her eyes widened. "My uncle taught you how to make that helmet and your strange gun?" she asked. Vertiline did not even wait for his answer as she continued. "Then perhaps he will teach me how to make them as well…" Her voice trailed off.

Samuel Winchester was watching her with a queer expression on his face, as though he did not quite believe the evidence provided to him by his own senses. "This may be impertinent, Miss Lucas, but why would a woman such as yourself wish to become a Practitioner?"

"Men!" Vertiline snapped. Even Samuel Winchester believed that a woman had her place. Penelope had often railed against her position, refusing to give up the safety of mourning in order to pursue her own passion under her dead husband's name. Vertiline had sympathized, but never understood the frustration until this moment. "Is it because I am a woman?" she demanded.

"No." Samuel Winchester shook his head vehemently. "I just would not think a woman of your accomplishments would require…" He groaned. "Now I am sounding like your Mr. Templeton."

_You have no idea how I wish to give him back._ Vertiline shook her head. "It is to save my cousin," she said simply. Vertiline shifted in her chair. "I…" She swallowed. Samuel Winchester hunted monsters. Perhaps he would not find her insane were she to divulge the truth. "I had a dream where she was in danger," Vertiline added, lowering her eyes.

Samuel Winchester dropped his cup, tea spilling onto the table and dripping onto the floor. "Dream?" he asked.

"Yes," Vertiline nodded. "I know it sounds preposterous, Mr. Samuel." She rose to her feet, looking around the room for a washcloth.

He sighed. "Not as preposterous as you would think, Miss Lucas."

She started to wipe off the table, but Mr. Samuel took the cloth from her hand and began cleaning after himself. _What kind of man are you?_ He gave her a stern look, and Vertiline sat back down in her chair. "Do you often come across young ladies in your travels with the Sight, Mr. Samuel?"

Samuel Winchester chuckled. "No. You are the first, to be certain." His mouth twisted, and one of his dimples was evident. "Deane will surely wish to harm me for telling you this, Miss Lucas." He sighed. "I have dreams as well. Horrible dreams. I use them to help people."

"Most of my dreams are simple things," she returned. _Horrible dreams. I use them to help people._ The sorrow in his voice was so great that Vertiline wished she could simply put her arms around him. She almost did, but a vision of her cousin's frowning face kept Vertiline in her chair. "My dream of Penelope was the first."

"How long have you…" Mr. Samuel's voice trailed off, and he squared his shoulders. "How often have you had this Sight?"

"Ever since I was a little girl," Vertiline replied. His hands were shaking on the table, and she did break with propriety and placed her hand upon them. "Have your dreams been so very bad?"

"You have no idea," he replied, but Mr. Samuel was smiling at her. "You do not seem to consider it a curse."

"Mary told both Penelope and I that our mothers had old blood." Vertiline swallowed. She knew that Penelope would certainly plot a revenge worse than the custodianship of Mrs. Almira Jennings for divulging this information. "That it was a gift given to help the people in our charge."

Samuel's eyes widened. "I have always thought of my gift as a curse. If I do not act on them, people die." His gaze focused on her face again, blue-green eyes suddenly piercing her. "Your cousin has the Sight?"

"My cousin has what Mary called the Touch." She frowned. "Well, had is the more appropriate term."

"The Touch?" Mr. Samuel looked genuinely interested.

"The Touch of the Spirit." Vertiline knew it sounded silly. "She could see spirits and talk to them. Spirits of nature, spirits of the fae…" She lowered her voice. "Human spirits. She used to play with a little girl named Aine in the garden." Vertiline wrapped her arms around herself.

Mr. Samuel's eyes were thoughtful. "I wonder if there is a connection in the genealogy of the region." He rose to his feet. "Perhaps my mother shares a common relative with your family, several generations removed, of course. Although that doesn't explain why my gift remained dormant, while yours and Pen – " He coughed. "Mrs. Harcourt's gifts were active."

"Perhaps it is because your mother died when you were so young," Vertiline replied. It was the logical conclusion – she could hear Penelope's voice in her head walking through the possibilities. "And while mine did as well, I was raised by my Aunt. She taught us how to use them, and the responsibilities that came with the Gifts. Penelope has all but forgotten, I'm afraid."

"You should know that the women in your family possess a singularly superior intellect!" Samuel Winchester's dimples were both on display. He started rushing towards the hall to the North wing, before turning to look at her over his shoulder. "Good night, Miss Lucas."

"Good night, Mr. Samuel," Vertiline said softly to his retreating back. She sighed. _I never even asked him about preparing me to save Penelope. And I told him entirely too much about our gifts._ She shivered. _Perhaps I will have the opportunity to ask him after breakfast._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_Observations of a Scientific Nature:_

_1. The adjustments I made to the pellet gun after the unfortunate altercation with Bootsie have proven successful. I was able to shoot two firebombs without the blasted mechanism jamming. This was a providential development, given the danger it helped to prevent._

_2. Deane may, indeed, be correct in his assertions that the fabric I created for the waistcoat makes one sweat like I pig. I was ashamed to be sitting so close to Miss Lucas. I may need to adjust one of the chemical compounds within the weave to allow it to be more breathable. (Corrollary: It is fortunate that only I know that Deane was correct. If he were to find out that I was having second thoughts regarding the fabric, he would surely never let me hear the end of it.)_

_3. If I adjust the combination of saltpeter versus alchemist fire, I might be able to produce an even bigger explosion with the firebombs. Explosions so big that Deane may even appreciate them._

_4. I missed the opportunity to field test the sticky pellets. Will continue to carry in utility belt should the optimum opportunity present itself. (Corollary: It is unfortunate that Francis Templeton was well-behaved. I'd have gladly fired a firebomb at him, let alone a sticky pellet.)_

_5. Deane is right. Again. You have no idea how much this shames me to admit, but we would certainly cover more ground on our investigations with some type of horseless carriage. I've inserted some preliminary sketches below. My first task will be to develop a metallic alloy that blends easily into the night. Metallic alloy. Horseless Carriage. Metallic. Carriage. Metallicarriage? Well, Deane would like the name, at any rate. Philistine._

_Observations on the Current Hunt:_

_1. Much to my chagrin, we were correct in our assumption that more is occurring in Westhire than a werewolf attack. There is a beast prowling the countryside, as large as a horse, and looking like some kind of prehistoric dog. A wooly mammoth type of dog. The sketch below shows this in better detail than mere words describe._

_2. Fire hurts the beast, but it is certainly resilient._

_3. The beast is also quick on its feet. Had the Metallicarriage been in existence, it may have been fast enough to catch it. However, I am not. (Perhaps I should add this observation to the previous section?)_

_4. I think the beast produces some type of acid from its jaws. I will need to bring Mrs. Harcourt with me to the Garden tomorrow morning so that we can investigate that possibility._

_Observations of a Personal Nature:_

_1. Deane has not yet returned, and it is well past midnight. I wonder if he actually did find the servants' quarters, which means I can expect him to stroll into the room mere minutes before dawn._

_2. I am feeling untrue to the memory of Jessica Moore. When she died, killed by the same creature that killed Mother, I had vowed to do everything in my power to save her. Particularly because I did not act upon the visions of her death. And while I miss her greatly, and her memory will always be dear to me, I find my thoughts wandering to Vertiline Lucas. She is beautiful. She, like her cousin, is keenly intelligent; for all that he eschews their gender, Winston Hillsworth raised them well. And she has the Sight. My own power, if the descriptions are true…and I believe they are. She does not even consider it a curse. Gift, she said. And how she wanted to save her cousin from a vision, with the determination to follow through on it. I had never thought that I would find the one woman who may be able to understand my position (the whole position, not just certain aspects of Samuel Winchester) better than any. Even Deane does not know how the visions can hurt, what you see. But I believe that she does._

_3. I must contrive some way to convince Winston Hillsworth to allow me to court his ward. Vertiline Lucas is too precious a jewel to be set into Francis Templeton's case._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Vertiline walked down the hallway to Penelope's room with a determined gait. Her cousin was, no doubt, still in a fowl mood – it was usually Penelope who awakened her cousin for an early morning stroll whenever they were at Highchurch Manor. _A good old-fashioned ramble when the sun rises._ Penelope loved her rambles.

Taking a breath, Vertiline raised her hand to knock and paused. _Perhaps I should simply wait to speak with her at breakfast?_ She swallowed. Delaying the inevitable would only cause further harm to the situation. Closing her eyes, she knocked quickly three times.

Sharp footsteps echoed across the interior room, and Penelope opened the door quickly. "Did I not tell – " Her cousin's eyes widened as they focused on Vertiline's face. "Verd!" Her cousin pulled her into the room with both hands. "I am sorry about last evening," Penelope added. "I was unavoidably detained."

"You are not," Vertiline retorted, looking at her cousin curiously. _What is wrong with her?_ Penelope was wearing the lightest lavender dress she owned, and had taken the time to weave small flowers that matched her gown into her loosely curled hair. _She looks so pretty this morning._ Vertiline shook her head, adding, "I know how much you enjoy playing cribbage with Mrs. Jennings and Templeton. Only you would be so perverse as to prefer sulking in the garret to a civilized card game."

"I am certain there are far better accusations regarding my perverse nature, cousin, but that _would_ rank highly on the list." Penelope smiled once more, and suddenly she was hugging Vertiline. "I am very sorry for not listening to you yesterday. I was out of sorts, and it was unfair to you."

Vertiline returned the hug. "I tolerate your tempestuous nature because I love you, Penelope."

"And I tolerate your fanciful view of the universe for that same reason," her cousin returned, green eyes sparkling. "We are a sad pair, you and I. Sometimes I think that we will end up two old ladies living alone together in the attic at Fillmont." Penelope looked unaccountably sad at that. "Except that you will soon be engaged to Templeton."

"Ah, Templeton." Vertiline shook her head. She took Penelope's hands into her own. "Penny, we need to discuss something that happened yesterday." She gestured towards the chairs in front of the fireplace, letting go of Penelope's hands.

"Verd, what is wrong?" Penelope's tone was soft, and her eyes took on the serious expression they usually wore. She sat down in the nearest chair. "Did Mrs. Jennings gossip about me during dinner? You know I have never cared what people say about me."

"She did gossip, and you _should _care," Vertiline returned, sitting on the couch across from her cousin. She looked into the fireplace. "But this happened afterwards." She swallowed. "Templeton and I were walking in the Rose Garden and…" Her voice trailed off.

Penelope jumped to her feet. "Did he do something untoward to you?" she demanded, green eyes flashing.

"No. In fact, he was a perfect gentleman during the walk." Given the number of times she had allowed Templeton to kiss her on any walk, Vertiline should have considered that an ill omen indeed. He did not even _try_ to kiss her last night. "But we were almost attacked by a creature," Vertiline added.

"A creature?" Penelope's eyes narrowed. "What _kind_ of creature?"

"_That_ kind of creature." Vertiline returned. "It was the creature in my dream, Penny." She took a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable tirade that was to come.

Penelope simply sighed, and her shoulders slumped. "How did you escape?" her cousin asked.

"Mr. Samuel," Vertiline said.

"Samuel Winchester?" Penelope shook her head, consternation clearly marked upon her countenance.

"I fear your obsession with Deane Winchester has marked your senses, Penny. His younger brother is as much of a man as that rogue. More, if truth be known!" Vertiline's energetic defense of Samuel Winchester did not seem to interest her cousin. In truth, Penelope looked as guilty as her father had during dinner the night before, but that was not important. "It _was_ Samuel Winchester who saved me! He used this strange gun that shot fire bullets at the creature," Vertiline said, lowering her head. "And it was a large beast, with a dog-shaped face and the reddest eyes I have ever seen."

Penelope turned to watch her thoughtfully at the end of Vertiline's speech. "It appears that the women in our family owe the Winchesters a debt twice over – now that we can add your name to the list of lives that have been saved due to their timely intervention."

"It does." Vertiline looked back towards the fireplace. "But there is something else."

"You were attacked by a monster, Verd. I cried the entire night Bootsie died."

"It is not that. I…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Penelope with down turned eyes. "I told Mr. Samuel about our gifts."

"Please tell me you are joking! What could possibly have possessed you to divulge our childish fantasies to Samuel Winchester? Now _he_ will know – " Penelope's voice was nearly a screech, and she tumbled backwards onto the chaise lounge. "If he did not think Hillsworth women were lunatics, he certainly does now." Penelope flung an arm over her eyes.

"He believes in it, Penelope."

Penelope raised her arm, peering at her cousin with one eye. "He _what_?"

Before Vertiline could respond, there was another brisk knock on the door. "Come in," Penelope said wearily, but made no attempt to get the door.

"Do not be rude, cousin," Vertiline returned with a frown. She walked briskly to the door and opened it. A handsome young man was standing before the door, hand raised once more to knock. Her eyes narrowed – Deane Winchester was dressed as formally as his brother would have been so early in the morning, with a properly starched collar, and she scarcely recognized the rogue. "Mr. Winchester?" Vertiline asked, her voice raising an octave.

"Miss Lucas." His voice was low. "Your cousin is expecting me."

"Ah, yes. No doubt for more kissing experiments." Vertiline rolled her eyes. Deane Winchester simply grinned at her. _What a rake!_ She turned towards her cousin, who was standing beside the chaise lounge. "It is Mr. Winchester, cousin. He is here to kiss you."

"Perhaps he is simply here to escort me to breakfast," Penelope replied softly.

"Although, if the offer is open, Mrs. Harcourt, I could be persuaded to conduct more kissing experiments – provided I found a woman willing to dedicate herself to such a scientific endeavor." The scoundrel simply smiled at her cousin.

"I do not doubt your dedication to such an endeavor, Mr. Winchester, but one cannot pursue Science on an empty stomach," Penelope returned calmly. _She is not even getting angry with him!_ Her cousin smiled. "I am afraid my days of scientific experimentation within the halls of Highchurch Manor are over, lest I continue to be an embarrassment to my father." Verd would have hugged Penelope if Mr. Winchester were not in the room; the pain in her cousin's voice was palpable.

"Then I would be honored if you would simply allow me to escort you to breakfast," Mr. Winchester replied, and there was a queer look in his eye – as though he actually felt pity for Penelope's situation. There was nothing mocking in his tone.

Vertiline's eyes widened, and she decided to make the most of the presented opportunity. She coughed. "I would allow you to escort both of us to breakfast, Mr. Winchester, if you could but answer one simple question for me," she said.

Mr. Winchester's eyes never left Penelope; her cousin's shoulders moved slightly, the smallest of shrugs. "I would be doubly honored." His expression clearly said otherwise, but his hazel eyes turned towards Vertiline expectantly.

"In your employment – " Vertiline began.

"Employment?" Dean Winchester interrupted with a snort. "I am a gentleman of leisure, Miss Lucas."

"You hunt demons, Mr. Winchester. I would hardly call that a leisurely form of employment." She shot Penelope a victorious glance; Mr. Winchester was looking at her cousin as though she had grown a second head.

"You told that to your _cousin_?" Deane Winchester looked terribly angry until he met Penelope's eyes. _What is going on between them?_ He shrugged. "I suppose it was inevitable. You are as close as sisters, are you not? I would not keep such a secret from Samuel." He grinned suddenly. "I just wish you had told me about the fairies when you were four, Penny. Imagine how many things I could have contrived for you to do by knowing that."

_So they knew each other as children?_ This conversation was upturning all manner of mysteries– Vertiline could have not have planned such a thrilling discovery. "You see, cousin? There are no secrets between our families. We are old friends, are we not?" She smiled, dimples gracing her face so well than even Mr. Winchester was smiling affably back at her. "They know about our gifts. We know about Samuel's." Deane Winchester started when Vertiline said that, and then frowned.

"Samuel has a gift?" Penelope was watching Deane Winchester sharply, swaying on her feet. He nodded, and she reached a hand forward to steady herself. Vertiline was certain that she would fall, but between one second and the next, Deane Winchester was holding her steady.

"My brother has visions of people who need to be saved," Deane said softly.

"I see." Penelope smiled wanly. She swallowed, and then rallied to regain her composure. "Shall we adjourn to breakfast, Mr. Winchester?"

"We shall," he returned, watching her carefully. Vertiline felt as though she was intruding, but could not say why. Mr. Winchester was the person who interrupted _her_ conversation with Penelope. He looked towards Vertiline. "Are you coming, Miss Lucas?"

She shook her head. "I promised Mrs. Jennings that I would meet with her before breakfast," Vertiline said, walking quickly towards the door. "I always keep _my_ promises to meet someone," she added, but tempered the response with a smile that she flashed at her cousin. There was silence when the door closed behind her, and she leaned her ear against the wood. Vertiline might have heard breathing, but she could make out no words.

"Are you quite satisfied with your results, Deane?" Penelope asked after several seconds had passed. Her cousin's voice was muffled by the wood, but still as tart as it could be.

_She is calling him by his Christian name?_

Mr. Winchester's chuckle was sharp. "Very. But I believe we should continue our mutual research, Penny." _Penny! _The nerve of the man was astonishing.Dean Winchester was laughing. "And should I take so much amusement in the fact that your clever little cousin does not know every secret between us?" he inquired. Vertiline's ears perked up.

"You are a thorough scoundrel." Penelope was laughing. "Perhaps that is part of your not inconsiderable cha – " Penelope's voice was cut off by a short gasp. _Did he just kiss her? _Vertiline counted ten heartbeats before her cousin added, "I _should_ warn you that my cousin is very protective of her secrets. Curiosity, however, does compel me to ask what you know." _So that she can hold it against me, no doubt! _Her cousin chuckled. "I shall make it worth _your_ while, Deane Winchester."

"_I_ shall hold you to that promise, Penelope Harcourt," Mr. Winchester replied with a chuckle. "Samuel found your memory box after the attack, and my maudlin little brother has been _memorizing_ her poetry," the scoundrel added. _Oh, blast it! _Vertiline recoiled against the door, jiggling the knob. "What the devil?" Deane Winchester asked, footsteps coming towards the door.

Vertiline fled down the hallway as quickly as possible, waiting at the turned corner. Penelope's door opened, and her cousin said, "There is nothing here, Mr. Winchester."

Their footsteps were getting closer. Vertiline ran out of the wing, hoping that Mrs. Jennings was still in her room. She almost stopped when she heard Penelope say, "You look very handsome this morning, sir." That her cousin was acting on her fascination with Deane Winchester was a most curious development, but Vertiline Lucas had no desire to be caught in her current subterfuge – breaking into the Winchesters' room to retrieve her poetry was currently a secondary obligation. _I must do so before lunch! _

Even Mr. Winchester's response – "And you look very pretty this morning, Mrs. Harcourt" – did not keep Vertiline Lucas from running as expeditiously as her fashionable boots would take her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Samuel settled himself into the same seat he had used the night before during dinner. He was one of the first to arrive, and he hoped vainly that Vertiline Lucas would soon be joining him – without her erstwhile chaperone or the unendurable Francis Templeton. Miss Lucas entered the room almost immediately after he sat down, dressed in a peach gown, and looked around breathlessly before storming out the way that she came.

As shocking as that appeared – for Samuel had no idea why Miss Lucas should be so distressed, and he was half-tempted to find her and offer assistance – it was not the prime astonishment the morning would afford before he received his buttered toast. He spied his older brother holding the door open – dressed in his best waistcoat and trousers with a _properly_ starched collar – while Penelope Harcourt entered the Dining Room. She was wearing a dress so fashionable it could barely be considered a mourning gown – save for the fact that it was the lightest of lavender, and she still wore a necklace of jet beads around her neck.

Samuel's eyes narrowed as they came towards him, Deane pulling out the chair across from Samuel for the widow. The smile she gave Samuel as she wished him good morning was a pleasant one, and he found himself drawn into a polite conversation about early morning rambles while the other guests arrived. Deane sat down on Samuel's right. _In that prig's seat!_

Vertiline Lucas entered again, arm linked with Mrs. Jennings. She attempted to steer the widow towards her cousin, but the old woman simply shook her head and sat down at the head of the table – close to where Winston Hillsworth would be sitting. Servants were scurrying in with platters, and Miss Lucas sent him an apologetic glance – which was noticed by her cousin. Brilliant green eyes sparkled as Penelope smiled softly behind her hand, but said nothing.

"Did you have a nice evening with the maids, Deane?" Samuel asked sourly.

"Samuel, that is not amusing. Do you wish me to take you outside and teach you a pugilism lesson, little brother?" Deane's eyes were flashing.

"I am aware of your dalliances with the maids, Mr. Winchester," Penelope Harcourt replied mildly. "Your reputation greatly precedes you."

"That is the burden of a great reputation," Deane answered with a sigh, "To be forever judged and maligned."

"One would consider your reputation fair warning," the widow returned, as Deane stared at her open-mouthed. "And, as you recall, I was the one who threatened to place you in the stables if you continued to interfere with the maids. I trust you enjoyed your _bed_ last evening, sir," she added, with a pleasant smile for his older brother.

Samuel chuckled in spite of himself – there was something to be said for watching a woman get the better of his generally non-plussed older brother – although he suspected the widow's admonition would not be so gently given if Penelope Harcourt knew that Deane had returned to their room but moments after dawn. _So much for not interfering with the maids._

Practitioners had begun congregating near Winston Hillsworth's place setting at the head of the table, their voices dropping to a whisper when the man walked into the dining room. His eyes focused on his daughter's back; it was, perhaps, fortunate for Mrs. Harcourt that she could not see the look on her father's face for surely any woman would have withered from it. He held his breath as Penelope Harcourt turned to face the stare.

"Good morning, Father!" The widow said brightly. She did not even flinch when their eyes met.

Winston Hillsworth coughed. "Have you nothing else to say, Penelope?"

"Of course, Father." Penelope lowered her eyes demurely, and sighed. Deane was giving her a strange look, frowning – the same look his older brother had given him when they were children, and Samuel had failed at one of their own father's appointed tasks. Mrs. Harcourt did not seem to notice Deane's dismay. "I would ask that you sit down quickly, Father. Breakfast will soon be cold, and I much prefer warm eggs," she said. Deane snorted outright, staring at Penelope Harcourt as though she were one of his new rifles.

Their host, however, looked as though he would explode, the colour rising in his face. Winston Hillsworth twitched at the noise, and then chuckled – hands held before him in a universal symbol of surrender. "You are your mother's daughter, Penelope," he said. "I should have learned never to match wits with you once you were old enough to speak." He gestured to the table with his hands. "Why are you all not eating?" he demanded, and Samuel could see where the widow had inherited the gleaming in her eyes when something was particularly amusing. "You heard my daughter. The eggs are getting cold." Lord Hillsworth shuffled towards his chair and sat down. "We still have five days left to our conference, gentleman. We need to fortify ourselves," their host added.

The Practitioners said nothing, simply staring at each other. Deane chuckled, and picked up the nearest platter – serving eggs to Penelope Harcourt. As soon as she thanked him, the other guests began serving themselves as well. The difference in mood from the night before was palpable. Somehow, Winston Hillsworth and his daughter had apologized to each other in the same fashion that had caused their breach. _In public._

Winchesters would not have acted in that manner. Disagreements were private. Secrets were private. Their life was private. Penelope Harcourt learning the truth had been inevitable – her innocence was the casualty of being a victim. It was likewise inevitable that she would tell her cousin. _They are practically sisters._ But he had told Vertiline Lucas the secret of his visions for no other reason than simply because she listened to him, looking at him with her guileless blue eyes.

Samuel watched her as she spoke animatedly to Mrs. Jennings and her uncle, smiling and laughing at something her uncle had said. Samuel sighed, and poked the eggs on his plate. "If you do not eat, Samuel, your eggs will get cold." Deane made as though to poke him in the hand with his fork, and then shrugged. "I'll eat them if you do not wish them," his older brother added.

"She saw the Beast, and she did not flinch." Samuel could only stare at Vertiline Lucas.

"My cousin is fearless," Mrs. Harcourt interjected. "There is very little that frightens her." She sighed. "Vertiline has been that way since she was a child. She used to say that the Sight guided her footsteps." The widow's voice was low, and she was staring at her cousin. "Perhaps it did."

"Although I doubt the Sight has prepared her for your recitation of her poetry, Samuel. The fact that she buried it over a decade ago should be indicative of her dislike for the verse," Deane added.

"Deane!"

"Samuel!"

"Why can you not be _silent_?"

"Why can _you_ not be silent?"

"You could both be silent," Mrs. Harcourt said, her mouth twitching, "So that I can enjoy my warm eggs in peace."

"You heard the woman, Samuel." Deane grinned. His brother _always_ had to end the argument.

"As did you," Samuel retorted. "And yet the echo of your voice persistently lingers."

Mrs. Harcourt laughed outright, covering her mouth with her hand. His older brother was giving her an aggrieved look. "Penny," he said pleadingly. "How can you take his side?" Deane suddenly grinned at him.

"Mine was the wittier retort?" Sam returned his brother's smirk with one of his own. "And _you_ are in an exceptionally good mood this morning. You are _much_ wittier when you are bad-tempered, Deane." He did not imagine the look that passed between Deane and the widow. _Oh, no…_ For those few seconds, Deane actually looked besotted. His older brother had never looked at any woman that way in front of Samuel. Penelope Harcourt was no mere dalliance. _I should have known when he showed up properly attired to a meal. _

The butler – Wharrow, Samuel remembered – came into the room. "Lord Hillsworth."

"Yes, Wharrow?" Lord Hillsworth looked positively jovial.

"There is a runner in the hall from the Constable, sir."

"Can it wait, Wharrow? We're in the midst of breakfast."

The butler frowned. "I will let him know, sir." Wharrow turned on his heel and began walking out of the Dining Room.

"Would you please excuse me," Penelope Harcourt said, her eyes following the butler as he walked – still frowning – out of the room. Neither Samuel nor Deane were given an opportunity to respond as the widow stood quickly and followed the butler out of the room.

Samuel immediately turned on his brother. "What are you doing with Mrs. Harcourt?" he asked with a murmur, shaking his head.

"Do not presume to lecture me, Samuel," Deane frowned as he whispered. "My relationship with Mrs. Harcourt is no one's business but our own. Do you understand?"

"If someone finds out, her reputation would be ruined!" Samuel hissed under his breath. _Did I just hear **that** word pass from between my older brother's lips?_

"And if someone finds out you have been having secret assignations with Miss Lucas, her reputation will be just as ruined," his older brother returned with the same lowered hiss.

"We met in the _kitchen_. We _drank_ tea." Samuel's eyes bore into his older brother's face. "Were you and Mrs. Harcourt drinking tea last night?" He knew by the expression on Deane's face that they had been doing something far more lascivious than drinking tea. _I trust you enjoyed your bed last evening, sir. _His brother was playing a dangerous game with Penelope Harcourt.

"You met with Miss Lucas without a chaperone. Society does not care what you do with the young lady. I would look towards your own house before you try to clean mine." Deane's entire face closed before Samuel's eyes, but his hazel eyes flickered towards the creak of the Dining Room door. Mrs. Harcourt returned to the table, white around the eyes. "Penelope, what is the matter?" His older brother ignored Samuel's frown at the use of her first name.

"The constable's runner will not speak with anyone but Father," she returned, "But Wharrow is his cousin." She leaned forward towards them, but did not sit down, her voice barely a whisper. "There was another murder, and the victim was described by the _eyewitness_ as being attacked by a wooly beast."

They said nothing to that, but Samuel glanced at Deane and they both stood up – following Penelope Harcourt out of the room.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mrs. Jennings had determined to sit as closely to Winston Hillsworth as propriety would allow during their morning repast; Vertiline suspected the widow had spent the prior day reviewing the house and grounds, which made it wholly evident that despite Uncle Winston's attachment to science, he was a wealthy man.

Vertiline would have much preferred to be sitting with her cousin, who was monopolizing the attention of both Winchesters; Deane Winchester was actually smiling, which meant that her cousin was going soft on him in her reproach. Vertiline's presence would be required simply to engender the game once more. The reproving glance that Samuel Winchester had sent her was even worse; especially considering that Templeton had remained firmly ensconced in his room. _Still whimpering like a little girl, I would suspect._

The fact that he was reading her poetry still set a cold shock within her stomach. Samuel Winchester read Gerard Manley Hopkins – even the essence of youth could not forgive the poetic transgressions of Vertiline's rhymes. _Babbling rhymes I filched out of **Much Ado**…_

She did her best to maintain her spirits during the meal, laughing at Uncle Winston's jokes. There was one truism Vertiline believed, and that was her Uncle Winston's humor was directly proportional to his relationship with Penelope – and when they were not fighting, Uncle Winston was one of the most affable and amusing gentlemen Vertiline had ever known.

Vertiline prayed the good humor was not due to Mrs. Jennings' presence, although her hopes were dashed when Uncle Winston complimented the widow on her hat. Even Wharrow's disturbance during breakfast was smoothly ruffled over by a kind word from the widow, whose normal propensity for gossip had been set aside in favor of several questions regarding Uncle Winston's pursuits.

Out of the corner of her eye, Vertiline noted that Penelope had followed the butler out of the room. Wharrow had practically raised them – along with Bootsie and Mary – after Aunt Cecily passed away. There was little that he would refuse his Penny. When the Winchesters stood upon her cousin's return to the room – and Penelope curiously chose to remain standing – Vertiline turned to her uncle and said, "May I be excused, sir?"

"Will you be taking the lovely Mrs. Jennings with you when you leave, my darling girl?"

_Penelope is going to hang me for introducing them._ Vertiline shook her head. "I did not plan to do so, Uncle."

"Then, by all means, Verd," Uncle Winston smiled past her at the widow. "You are free to leave." He looked down the table. "I am certain your cousin is waiting for you in the grove, ready to engage in all sorts of mischief."

_If my__suspicions are correct, Penelope has already found a new playmate._ Two of them, in fact, and Vertiline had little time to spare before she lost them. The way all three of them looked, faces white and pinched, meant that something unpleasant had occurred – something involving that huge beast from the Garden, no doubt. If Penelope Harcourt could assist the brothers Winchester on their investigation, so could Vertiline Lucas.

The swish of her cousin's skirt flashed at the end of the hall, and their murmuring voices drifted towards her. Vertiline recognize the word "library" – _Samuel!_ – and smiled. She knew a shortcut through one of the servants' passages off the Parlor; Penelope had not yet divulged every secret in Highchurch Manor.

Vertiline settled herself into her uncle's chair behind the desk, arms folded primly in front of her. The door opened swiftly, and Deane Winchester's hazel eyes nearly distended themselves from his face when he spied her. "Bugger!" he screeched as the force of his younger brother's stride pushed him into the room.

"Blast, Deane! Do not stop in the middle of the bloody doorway!" Samuel Winchester smacked his brother against the back of the head. "Mrs. Harcourt nearly pushed us both over, you buffoon!"

"Nearly pushed?" Penelope's indignant voice carried past the doorway as she stepped past into the room. "You are the one who slowed your pace without warning, Samuel Winchester."

"It is your cousin, Penny Hillsworth," Deane Winchester intoned, as though death had come upon him. "I am beginning to determine, Miss Lucas, that you are the bane of my existence. First you lure me to follow you to that blasted grove, and then insult the size of my feet."

"That was my cousin," Vertiline returned with an even tone. "I simply laughed at Penelope's jest."

Samuel started at her voice, and then blushed. Vertiline would not have expected that outcome from the self-assured young man who saved both herself and Templeton the night before from a rampaging creature. "Miss Lucas?" His voice cracked as he asked the question. "You do us a great honor, but we intended this to be a private discussion."

"There are no secrets between our families now, Mr. Samuel. I am here to help you in your investigations." Vertiline smoothed her skirt underneath the desk. "I can be as useful as my cousin."

"If we were conducting an investigation at a _tea _party," Deane Winchester muttered, sending a nasty glance towards his brother.

"Deane!" Samuel Winchester nearly bellowed his older brother's name. "Your manners!"

"I am well aware of your brother's manners, Mr. Samuel." Vertiline smiled at Samuel. "Although my cousin's influence convinced him to properly dress for breakfast." She peeked at Penelope underneath her lashes, and a smile flittered across her cousin's face. _So that was at Penny's request._

"There is no use arguing with my cousin once she sets her mind on something, Mr. Winchester." Penelope shook her head, eyes focusing on Deane Winchester's maddened countenance. "It seems the logical course would be to discuss the issue at hand and see what could be done about it before more innocent people die," her cousin added. It did not surprise Vertiline that Penelope would make the misguided attempt to introduce Deane Winchester to the concept of logic.

"You are, as always, the cool voice of intellect, Mrs. Harcourt," Samuel Winchester interjected, voice throbbing. _What the devil?_ "It would appear that we have two allies on this investigation, Deane. And I know from personal observation that Miss Lucas is plucky on the field of battle." _Plucky?_ Sam Winchester's brilliant smile almost rectified his use of that most unfortunate term.

Deane Winchester sighed, lowering his head. _He's capitulated._ "What is the current state, then, Samuel?" Hazel eyes narrowed and he flashed a grin at her. "Apart from the fact that you are hoarding Miss Lucas' puerile poetry in our room."

Samuel choked. "Deane Winchester! That is enough. It is time for _your_ pugilism lesson."

"There is no need, Mr. Winchester." Vertiline lowered her voice, matching the tone she remembered hearing Penelope use when sparking with Peter while he was alive. "I am well aware of your regard, and am flattered that a gentleman who holds Hopkins in such esteem would feel compelled to memorize my _puerile_ sonnets."

"They are not – " Samuel Winchester began, eyes shining. Deane Winchester snorted and Samuel shook his head sharply. "In any case, we should endeavor to do as Mrs. Harcourt suggested and discuss what we've concluded."

"We know nothing of the Beast you encountered last evening," the elder Winchester commented. "That would be something we could research."

Samuel Winchester frowned. "I do remember reading once about the Beast of Gevaudan. It was a cow-sized creature that terrorized the Gevaudan region in France for three years, beginning in 1764. By all accounts, it was a wolf-like creature – and that would certainly be the case with the Creature we spied last evening. The peasants believed that it was a demon, which given the history of Westshire would not be wholly out of character. And the similarities between the descriptions and what I witnessed last evening are striking." Blue-green eyes sparkled behind his glasses.

"How could something like that travel from France to an island without assistance?" Deane Winchester asked.

Samuel Winchester snorted. "Perhaps it was summoned, Deane?" The elder Winchester sent another aggravated look in his brother's direction, scratching underneath his ear. "In any case, it bears further research," Samuel added.

"Mary used to tell stories of a beast like that," Penelope said softly, looking towards Vertiline for confirmation. Mary had discussed the wolf-beast that used to punish evil-doers when harvests were poor. "It acted as vengeance for those who could not defend themselves," her cousin added, green eyes thoughtful. "There were several books in the library, as I recall, detailing those legends. Mother used to collect them." _Ostensibly so that you and I could pick up where she left off, my skeptical cousin._ Penny looked towards one of the bookshelves. "It might be a clue of some sort."

"There is also the question of the eyewitness, which would require a visit to the constable," Deane Winchester added. "I suppose we could pretend to be visiting deputies from London, offering our services on the case." Samuel nodded in response to his older brother's suggestion.

"Or one of us could go with you and ask to speak with him," Vertiline proposed. "Between my cousin and I, we know most everyone in town."

"And every single secret they're trying to keep," Deane Winchester said, smiling benevolently at Penelope. Her cousin returned his smile. _They are making me ill._ "But I imagine we could also speak with Mr. Norman and see when the body will be on the premises for investigation," he added.

"Body?" Vertiline felt sick to her stomach.

"What kind of game do you believe we're playing at, Miss Lucas? Innocent people have died." Deane Winchester glared at her. "Perhaps you should stay here while Samuel and I perform our appointed task."

"The research sounds like a task for Mrs. Harcourt and I," Samuel added. "Perhaps you and Miss Lucas…" His voice trailed off as the thought occurred, spurred on by the absolutely disgusted expression on his older brother's face. "Or you could help Mrs. Harcourt with research," Samuel suggested suddenly.

Deane Winchester was nodding. "I suspect Lord Hillsworth has several regional maps. With those, Penny and I can ascertain where such a large creature could go to ground. She knows this countryside better than anyone would, I suspect. Given her propensity for walking the grounds on her stunted legs." Even Samuel looked dismayed at his older brother's expression when he said that, but Penelope seemed not to notice. "Which would give you ample time, little brother, to recite poetry to Miss Lucas to your heart's content," the damnable man added with a gleeful smile.

"Deane!" Samuel Winchester was blushing profusely.

"Ah, Samuel. That was too easy, but you must admit it was a masterful jest."

"Deane…" Samuel's voice trailed off as he stared at his brother.

"One must amuse one's self when facing hours of research," his older brother said softly. "The sacrifices I make for your well-being, little brother."

"It is impossible to stay angry with you, Deane." Samuel was looking at her now, eyes down turned – as though he were scared of her reaction. A man who hunted demons was frightened of _her_, and he had no reason to be. Vertiline Lucas felt that he was the best example of a man she had yet met, and she would dare much to help him. _Including the estrangement of Francis Templeton._

"That is because you are saintly, younger brother." Deane Winchester looked so much like a little boy when he said it that Vertiline actually felt a catch in her throat. Penelope's green eyes were shining, and her cousin – uncaring of the two extra pairs of eyes watching her – placed a hand on Deane Winchester's arm. "But we don't have much time. You should both be on your way," he added.

"Shall we, Miss Lucas?" Samuel Winchester extended his hand to her, and Vertiline slipped her gloved fingers into his grasp – chair pushing back as he helped her to rise. "We have several good persons to speak with this morning." He looked back at Penelope. "And when we return, you and I need to investigate the area where the Beast first attacked, Mrs. Harcourt. I believe it's saliva is acidic."

Penelope looked as though she was going to protest the possibility of such an occurrence, but smiled wanly. "I will await your return, Mr. Samuel. If we could catalogue such a creature, imagine what a boon that would be for your occupation. We must start _somewhere _with that task." Vertiline almost smiled – _there_ was the cousin she so long remembered, although she was shocked by Penelope's assertion regarding a long-term association with the Winchesters.

"I need my parasol, Mr. Samuel," Vertiline said softly, embarrassed once more by a glance that passed between Penelope and Deane Winchester. _What is wrong with me? And I cannot even look at Samuel Winchester without blushing._

"It is on the way," Samuel returned, beaming brightly as they walked out the door. The door closed behind them, immediately followed by the sound of something bumping into Uncle Winston's desk. Vertiline started at the noise. Samuel Winchester simply sighed, mouth curved into a rueful twist. "Deane," he muttered, shaking his perfectly parted hair. "You are going to be the death of me."

_Your brother is probably going to be the death of all of us._

* * *

A/N: 

Gerard Manley Hopkins is a real poet. Unfortunately, his work was not published in a volume until 1918. However, as this is an alternate history, I have decreed that Mr. Hopkin's did, indeed, publish a book of verse prior to his death in 1889.

Samuel has unveiled more gadgetry in this installment. Heat lenses are a part of his night goggles. (And their appearance in this chapter was especially for quellfromage , who loves them so!) He is in the process of making even bigger and better firebombs. And, of course, something big and black and fast as hell is on its way.

As is no doubt obvious, Deane and Penelope's behavior is wholly unacceptable within Victorian society. (The only thing in their favor is their class – both are the children of nobles, and the upper class often flouted the rules held so dear by the middle class. Who believed the upper class were corrupted. I still suspect, however, that Lord Hillsworth would be somewhat disturbed by the relationship. So, minor class lecture over.) However, Samuel and Vertiline's tea in the kitchen would have been a mark against Verd's virtue because they were without chaperone. And in the immortal words of wenchpixie : "Why yes, Sam. I believe we did."

The Beast of Gevaudan is a historical monster that did, indeed, terrorize the Gevaudan region of France. The description Samuel gives is fairly common, and those interested in learning more can easily Google for more information; I could write a book report about the myth. _The Brotherhood of the Wolf_ is an utterly fantastic movie based upon this legend. (This is wholly unrelated to the story, but wanted to give a shout-out to the movie anyway.)

I _really_ need an icon of Sam with a halo. Because, you know, he's saintly.

For those Dear Readers still with me at this point, I shall simply say: Boots, suspenders, and a desk.

And, as always: Criticism is always welcome, and comments are the happy things which make this fangirl dizzy.


	5. During Which a Wager is Accepted

_**By Gaslight**_

Twenty-two years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home. Since that day, a bereaved John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick upon his family; raising his sons to follow in his footsteps.

Armed with Samuel's inventions and Deane's uncanny ability to bring down any prey, the brothers Winchester travel through Great Britain and Europe, following clues they receive in the form of mysterious letters — and Samuel's disturbing visions.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. Likewise, the idea of the weapons they use owes more to Jules Verne than to my own devising. And while Mr. Winchester's peculiar mode of transport has not yet made an appearance, its particular execution also does not belong to me. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Deane Winchester, Penelope Harcourt, Winston Hillsworth, Almira Jennings

Pairings (Overall): Deane/OFCs, Samuel/OFC

Rating (Overall): M

Rating: M (Naughty Victorian escapades and not inconsequential angst. I did my best to downplay some of the more enthusiastic pursuits for the rating.)

Summary: Deane demonstrates his knowledge regarding the unique functions of desks, while Penelope considers a wager that she may come to regret.Despite their enthusiastic pursuits, both Deane and Penny attempt research regarding the Beast rampaging through Westshire.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie and the equally lovely pheebs1.

* * *

**Chapter Five: During Which a Wager is Accepted, and the Creation of an Impressive Machine is Discussed**

The library at Highchurch Manor was the largest Deane Winchester had yet seen in a private dwelling. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stuffed with books – some even set sideways on top of other books. There were high-backed chairs, with a pillow for the back, located near each window to allow for a natural light source whilst reading. The ceiling was covered with ornate plaster work, and gas lamps were set for when the light grew too dim. The focal point of the room, however, was the desk.

The desk was massive, fashioned from oak and French polished so that it shone brightly – even in the dim glow of the gaslight, or the sunlight streaming through the room's windows. It sat directly opposite the main doors into the room, and Dean was unsurprised to note that the largest private library in Northern England most likely boasted the largest desk known to modern man. The writing space was large enough that two people could sleep comfortably atop it, which was an observation that had him grinning at Penelope Harcourt. It was enclosed on all sides from the writing area to the floor, save at the back of the desk – where a comfortable chair was placed.

It was obviously Winston Hillsworth's pride and joy.

Fortunately for Deane Winchester, Penelope Harcourt had plans for Lord Hillsworth's masterpiece. As soon as Samuel and the damnable Miss Lucas closed the door behind them, Penelope pushed him forcefully against the desk.

"Gently," Deane muttered as his backside thumped against the shining edge. He might have said more, but Penelope Harcourt's devilish mouth was pressed against his as she raised herself to the tips of her toes to kiss him. Without breaking the kiss, Deane grabbed her by the waist and switched their positions, depositing her atop of the desk.

"Why are you so handsome?" she asked breathlessly. Penelope held onto the collar of his waistcoat, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. It was not a question he expected, nor was the coquettish manner in which she said it. "This would be so much easier, Deane, if you were not," she added.

"I had not realized it was such a hardship to kiss me, Penny." He grinned. "You have been doing so at every possible opportunity."

Penny shook her head, loose curls brushing her shoulders. The flowers reminded him of when they were children – strange how the memories were coming back. She had loved flowers, bestowing them upon Samuel at any given occasion. Deane himself had worn more chains of flowers than he was willing to admit after a summer with Penny Hillsworth. "Kissing you is no hardship," Penelope said with another of her small smiles. "I was referring to the fact that we must engage in research rather than more enthusiastic pursuits."

Deane began kissing her neck softly, light traces with his lips. "We could engage in more enthusiastic pursuits as preparation for the boredom of research."

"Or we could consider more enthusiastic pursuits a just reward for performing our duty," she whispered, her fingers entwining themselves into his hair. "Were we not the ones who agreed to perform the research?"

"You would be performing the research regardless," Deane returned. "I simply rescued you from the drudgery of a morning spent in a library with my Oxford-educated younger brother." One hand was trailing her left leg, underneath her skirt – she was even wearing petticoats and stockings. "Does that not earn me _some_ recompense, Penelope Harcourt?"

"When we have completed our appointed task, Deane Winchester, I shall provide you with _ample_ recompense," Penelope replied, her voice husky. Her eyes were suddenly serious. "But this is my home. I have to do something." She was kissing the freckles on his nose. "And you are going to help me."

"I am?" Deane wrinkled his nose.

Penelope nodded. "You are." Deane moved his lips from her neck, trailing down to the décolletage of her gown. She gasped as he started pushing her backwards onto the desk but placed both arms behind her to resist the fall. "Deane, I _am_ serious." She frowned at him.

"You look serious," he returned with a grin. "But I am persistent." Deane raised his eyebrows at her. "And devastatingly handsome."

She was kissing him again, mouth opening to his as he pressed down upon hers. "You _are_ devastatingly handsome," Penelope whispered as they paused for breath. "However, unless you wish to insult the veracity of my father, I am the most willful woman in existence." She pushed off the top of the desk with her arms, sliding against him until her feet touched the floor.

Deane touched her shoulders with his fingers, hazel eyes staring into her golden-green ones. He sighed. "You are worse than Samuel. We have an understanding, my little brother and I."

"Understanding?" Penelope stared at him, touching his cheek with her hand. "You gallivant around the countryside while your poor brother does all the research?" Deane made no attempt to respond, but he recognized the stubborn look on her face from the most unlikely of sources; his father. She had that same look in her eye, the one that brooked no argument. "That hardly seems the type of sporting behavior deserving of ample recompense, Deane Winchester."

"You are too clever by half, Penelope Harcourt. If your cousin was not already destined to be the death of me, you would certainly suffice as an appropriate replacement."

Penelope's smile grew wicked. "I may yet be the death of you, but I warrant you will find it a good deal more agreeable than my cousin's chosen methods." Her hand twisted inside his waistcoat as she unbuttoned it, touching the shirt underneath; she was actually scratching him, slow against his chest, before bringing her mouth up to kiss his once more. "All you have to do, Mr. Winchester, is assist me in pulling books off the shelves, and review maps while I read," she added.

"Why not simply use the sliding ladder?" Deane asked. If she did not stop kissing him, or moving her hands closer to his waist, he was going to be pushed beyond all reasonable restraint – and the idea of shoving every implement off her father's desk to take her became something more than an idea he used to tease a pretty young woman.

"You may not have the benefit of seeing your back in motion, but it is a magnificent display of the human physique," Penny said simply. Her eyes sparkled as she buttoned his waistcoat once more. "One must take the chance to explore perfect specimens whenever a promising opportunity arises."

Deane's eyes widened. "You consider our assignation a scientific exercise?" He snorted. "Penelope Harcourt, I am shocked beyond all reason." His voice took on a teasing tone. "Then surely you will appreciate the opportunity of measuring the desktop." Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. "_Can_ two adults engage in enthusiastic pursuits atop it, or will they need to rely upon bookcases for support of their cause?"

Penny giggled, shaking her head once more. Deane caught the scent from the flowers she had woven into her hair. "You are a wicked man."

"Am I wicked?" Deane leaned down to actually nip at her neck, set off by one loose curl. Penelope's breathing quickened, and her arms were looped around his neck. "Or is the woman who drives me to distraction all the more wicked? She promises such bounty, flaunting herself before me; and yet, instead of allowing me to indulge my passion for her, she consigns me to perform research." Deane sighed dramatically. "And I did not even get to finish my breakfast," he added.

"Are you quite certain there is nothing else I can do to further ruin your morning?" Penelope asked. She was doing her best not to break into a smile. _Are you are aware of how wholly delectable you are? _"I pride myself on completing my tasks thoroughly," Penny added.

"There is not." He sighed dramatically, one side of his mouth quirking up at her. "But I am now fully assured of _your_ wickedness."

"As if there was any doubt of _that_," she returned with an ironic tilt to her mouth. "I _can_ ring for breakfast. The kitchen is not far."

"That is unnecessary, Penny. Between the additional exercise and the lack of repast, you _may_ very well be the death of me." Deane grinned at her, dropping his arms and stepping backwards. Her green eyes softened when he said that, and Deane wondered what she was thinking. _Of her husband, perhaps?_ He shook his head sharply; Peter Harcourt was not a personage he wished to contemplate.

"The books I need are all in this section." Penelope pointed towards two bookcases near the fireplace at the south end of the room. "And you will find that the maps are kept in the map shelves behind us." There was a light in her eye that Deane had not yet witnessed, a calm sense of confidence in what she proposed. She had picked up a small book from the desk, and a quill for writing – setting them on a table near the closest high-backed chair – before walking towards the bookcase.

Penny stared at the books closely, hands behind her back, and she began looking for the volumes she required – hand coming forth to touch the bindings as she read the titles. When she held more than two books in her arms, Deane moved to stand beside her; he took the books without prompt, and she smiled at him before standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. His throat swelled, and he had to swallow suddenly.

_I do not believe I will **ever** be able to forget this woman._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Despite his protestations regarding his inability to properly conduct research, Deane Winchester had proven himself more than passing adequate in that regard. When he spied the sheer volume of books she had pulled from the shelves, the man simply rolled his eyes – prior to removing his waistcoat and setting it on the back of the chair closest to hers. With a small sigh, Deane picked up a book from the table between them.

They spent several hours in companionable silence – marred occasionally by a question that they would ask of the other. Penelope kept track of all notes, including the books where they had located their information should they be required to review more details upon Samuel's return to Highchurch. Peter had never spent hours with Penelope in such a manner, instead relying upon her not inconsiderable skills in all matters of study.

Truly, what perturbed Penelope most keenly was not Deane's self-effacing attitude towards his intelligence. The choice to not pursue higher education was not due to ability; no man so witty was not without intelligence. It was the look in his eyes when he discussed his employment, the act of hunting itself, that saddened her. Deane Winchester was undeniably roguish in his approach to life, but he risked his life for the common weal of personages he did not even know. Yet he did not even seem to realize the nobility of his purpose. She frowned. _Or how very alone he seems when he does not know you are watching him._

"I did not know it was possible for one small baronage to collect dozens of books detailing stories of supernaturally-charged wolves," Deane said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. He slammed the book shut, turning to look at the table. "It appears our best culprit is featured in the tales your old Mary used to relay about the Dark Wolf – and not in these _books_ at all." Deane grinned. "Imagine what enthusiastic pursuits we have missed simply to arrive at this conclusion."

Penelope snorted, but ignored the jest. The stories regarding the creature were the closest to Samuel's description of the Beast from France. "Except the Dark Wolf was not known for terrorizing the countryside, whereas the Beast of Gauvedan attacked indiscriminately. The Dark Wolf was called to provide vengeance against a just wrong."

"So the stories say," Deane replied.

"The stories do not often reflect the truth," Penelope surmised, her voice soft.

Deane shook his head. "Not usually. Myths change to fit their time. The fundamental components remain the same, but there are nuances." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Perhaps there is someone who feels they were wronged, and the creature responds to intent."

"Meaning?" Penelope suspected she knew the answer, but watching Deane Winchester place pieces of a puzzle together – with that serious expression one normally did not see on his face – made her flush.

He gave her a strange look. "Meaning that it does not matter whether the one who called it was actually wronged, so long as the summoner believes that his position is the just one." Deane's eyes narrowed. "Certainly you had already made that connection, Penelope?" She was still blushing, and he smiled suddenly. "Are you hoping to turn me into a _scholar_?" Deane's voice was low. "I can assure you that there is no man in this world who understands the unique functions associated with a desk better than I. We can find a worthwhile use for even that _behemoth_ your father commissioned."

Penelope swallowed, her breath caught in her throat. _This man…_ Had anyone told her that Deane Winchester – the uncouth scoundrel with which she spent ten miserable hours in a carriage – could make her heart stutter in her chest, Penelope Harcourt would not have believed the assertion. In three days, he had turned her into a woman who would risk her reputation itself simply to feel the rumble of his chest against her cheek, the weight of his skin underneath her fingers – the touch of him deep within the quick of her.

The crack of lightning brought her attention to the windows. It was pouring outside, the rain coming down so thickly that she could scarcely see beyond the glass in the windowpanes. Deane's hazel eyes flickered towards the same window, and the smile he gave her was lopsided and satisfied. "It would appear that our attempt to find the Creature's hideout by trudging through the countryside has been thwarted by Nature itself."

"We can still review the maps," she replied mildly.

"I have already done so." Deane rose to his feet, pointing towards the maps that were placed on the desk. "You were engrossed in one of your many volumes of local folklore. Do you not recall?"

"I do not." Penelope closed her own book, shaking her head. "But I am overly fond of books. Vertiline often speaks to me while I am reading, and I do not recollect the conversations afterwards." She set her book back on the pile of volumes near her feet. "You will find that I am horribly flawed when it comes to books, sir."

"Perhaps," he returned, pulling her to her feet swiftly. "But I warrant that you are perfect compared to my flaws, for all that I am handsome."

"True on both counts," she alleged. Deane appeared so disconcerted by her quick agreement, Penelope had no other recourse but to laugh – a low laugh that likewise seemed to surprise him. "But you must admit that the sum of your flaws contributes to an astonishing greatness," she added, as serious in tone as she could manage.

"Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably." Deane grabbed her around the waist, leaning down to whisper gently in her ear. The hairs on her neck stood upon end as his breath, warm and soothing, blew upon it.

"We are indeed." Penelope drew back, and she knew her eyes belied that statement.

As did his. "Penelope – " Deane began. "Do you suppose…" His voice trailed off as he shook his head sharply, his hazel eyes unguarded. _If you had looked upon me thus in the carriage, we would not have wasted our first two days having a battle of wits._ Suddenly, he smirked at her. "Since we cannot embark upon a journey until the rain has ceased, perhaps I can interest you in a small wager. Gambling is one of my _many_ flaws."

"I am unsurprised, Deane Winchester. But a wager?" Penelope was intrigued in spite of herself. "What sort of wager?"

"Your father's monstrous desk presents a challenge we must employ," he returned, staring at it with another grin on his face. "And I would wager that I can overcome you in a manner so clever that none should know that I am even here."

"And how do you propose to accomplish this?" she asked. _I am certain I will have grounds to lament this question._ But there was something in the way that he spoke of his proposition that made her wish to accept, regardless of the consequences.

"By relying upon my many talents," Deane Winchester returned with a voice so low it was nearly a growl, "And through the advantage of a skirt so full it can hide all manner of sins." There was something in his eyes that turned her heart against itself, as though he believed her to be the most beautiful creature he had yet seen. _Peter never looked upon me so. _"Do you accept?" he asked.

Her throat was dry, but Penelope nodded. _I fear you have already won your wager. _She could not keep herself from quivering when Deane took her hand and pulled her towards the desk. He settled himself underneath it, and then drew her down into the chair. "Move forward upon the seat," he whispered. No sooner had she done so, than did she felt his hands underneath her skirt – rising past her knees to the waist of her bloomers.

Penelope braced her feet upon the bar underneath the desk, lifting her hips. She bit her lip as the bloomers were brought to her knees – and Deane's damnable mouth was kissing the inside of her right thigh, tugging mischievously on her garter belt with his fingers. _To let me know he has found it, no doubt._ Soft kisses in places where they had never once been planted, moving ever closer to the tender part of her. Her breath quickened; boots still braced upon the bar for support.

"Deane," she breathed. Penelope knew she should not be saying his name aloud, that someone could walk past the library door and hear her, but that did not matter. One hot breath lured trembling from her entire body, evoking a fire within, and she snatched a book from her father's desk and opened it – something about electromagnetic constructs. Penelope could not be fully certain, but she might have gasped aloud.

The door to the library swung open. "Are you unwell, Mrs. Harcourt?" a voice asked sharply. _Templeton! _Penelope's green eyes focused upon his face, willing her legs to stop trembling. "You look as though you have a fever," her cousin's suitor added, attempting to display an expression of suitable concern upon his countenance. He appeared to be under the influence of too much drink from the evening before, which was probably her only saving grace regarding the situation.

And Penelope found that she did not wish for it to end.

Penelope could scarcely speak. "Mr. Templeton – " she managed without gasping, feeling the flush break out on her skin. "I fear I am terribly unwell." She shifted up in the chair, both hands clutching the book she had balanced on her abdomen, and took a deep breath – hoping that Templeton would not realize that her legs were quivering fiercely. "I have been overcome by some strange fever." _And if you stop, Deane Winchester, I shall hurt you. Physically._

"No doubt brought on by your insupportable comportment yesterday," Francis Templeton returned. A crack of thunder outside caused the man's shoulders to hunch. He was certainly, as her father would surmise, 'hung over.'

"No doubt." Penelope straightened her back, resolving to speak in a normal state. Even so, her voice was too breathy and somewhat subdued within her ears. Deane had ceased his ministrations. "I do not suppose I could incommode you for some lemonade. My throat is sorely parched, and I fear this fever is so virulent that it will not relent until I have become hoarse." She could feel the curve of Deane's smile as he kissed her thigh; she slid down further in the seat while balancing the book on the desk in front of her.

The cleverness of Deane Winchester did not disappoint her. Templeton's eyes widened, but he was hypothetically a gentleman, and her cousin's suitor appeared to have no idea as to the occurrence underneath Winston Hillsworth's desk. The only expression on Templeton's face was impatience for having been asked to spare a few moments to help a lady. Penelope bit back another gasp and smiled. "And perhaps a cold compress," she asked suddenly. Her face suddenly felt as though it were on fire, and she suppressed another cry.

The queer expression on her face was enough to convince her cousin's suitor as to the severity of Penelope's condition – and disdain suddenly turned to concern as she placed her head in her hands abruptly, elbows braced against the desk. "It would by my honor," Francis Templeton replied. He leaned forward. "It is not catching, is it?" _Of course, that would be **your** primary concern._

"No, it is not." Penelope managed to focus her eyes upon Templeton's countenance. "I would ask that you return at half past, Mr. Templeton, so that I may be afforded the opportunity to make myself presentable."

"Of course, Mrs. Harcourt," Templeton replied. As her cousin's suitor turned his back to vacate the room, Penelope Harcourt knew that she had lost far more than a wager. Deane's kisses dared a scream Penelope could not voice but a short, sudden hitch to her breath escaped her throat. It was inevitable. Her body, played upon so sweetly, was consumed with the sting of shuddering pleasure. Templeton, thankfully, did not seem to register the quick expulsion of her breath, save to hasten his steps outside of the door.

_I was overcome the moment I knew you had not forgotten me._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Deane Winchester had never believed that Penelope Harcourt – a proven wanton within the relative safety of her garret – would succumb to the temptations of a more public purview for their pursuits; teasing her in that regard, however, _was_ a pleasurable pastime. Unbeknownst to herself, the widow blushed prettily. In truth, Deane had little care for Society's rules but even _he_ understood that his suggested activity upon the desktop was too dangerous for a woman of any station to pursue in broad daylight – let alone a widow whose secret had been unearthed due to the revenge of those she rightfully vilified in her father's Billiards Room.

Quite the contrary, actually; Deane's sole expectation was her inescapable rejection.

When Penelope agreed to his wager, Deane was shocked. Penelope's active encouragement regarding his ministrations once the odious Francis Templeton entered the library rendered Deane completely gobsmacked. _I fear this fever is so virulent that it will not relent until I have become hoarse. _The widow's delight, regardless of the circumstance, was his only goal and Deane used his not inconsiderable skill to provide her with a prolonged pleasure.

Fortunately, Penelope was as skilled in the polite art of conversation as she was in simply being desirable. _I would ask that you return at half past, Mr. Templeton, so that I may be afforded the opportunity to make myself presentable._ Her well-mannered request to remain secluded until that time – which meant that servants themselves must be alerted, or Francis Templeton was no true gentleman – was a masterful stroke.

Even so, Deane Winchester was wholly unprepared for Penelope Harcourt's next response as soon as Francis Templeton closed the door behind him.

Penelope pushed the chair back quickly, and reached a small hand underneath the desk to him. "Quickly!" she said, her gold-flecked eyes dancing. Deane stretched to his full height once he evacuated himself from beneath the desk. Penelope threw her arms about his neck and kissed him ardently. That alone was enough for him to pin her arms behind her back and devour her mouth.

"Penelope."

"Now," she said, shoving the maps aside and pulling herself onto the desk. "We do not have much time." Penny's hands grasped a brace in each hand and pulled him forward, fingers automatically undoing the buttons on his trousers. "I need – " Deane ceased her commentary with another sharp kiss. He knew precisely what she needed.

"Are you certain?" Deane asked, but his hands were already lifting the skirt of her gown. "What if someone spies upon us."

"I have _never _been more certain," Penelope replied, her voice husky within her throat, and she smiled at him, that same smile he remembered from when they were children – but she wasn't offering him a posey of flowers. She lay before him, offering herself. "And I do not care," she added. Penelope's green eyes burned.

Deane stifled a moan. Penelope's mouth opened slightly, her fingers tightening against his hips as she rocked against him; he would be unsurprised if he bruised, so fraught she had become. Last night they had been gentle despite their desire, but the way she looked at him – as though the remembrance of the moment must last her entire lifetime – filled Deane with a surging need. He was remorseless. Penny bit her lip, caught admist the tenderest fires – and with another subdued groan, Deane Winchester met her there.

Penny shifted on the desk so that she could pull his mouth down to hers, hands in his hair. "Poor wandering one," she whispered so softly Deane strained to hear it, brushing his left cheek with her hand. _Is she earnest?_ Her eyes held no dissembling. Deane trembled, hoping it was from the weight of himself resting on his arms. _Because otherwise…_ He pulled back to catch his breath. Deane did not want to consider the meaning if she were merely joking, and he most emphatically did _not _want to consider the meaning if she were _serious_.

"Do you think I have strayed, Penny?"

Deane had not realized that he asked the question aloud until she answered. "I fear we are wandering in unknown territory, you and I…" Her voice trailed off and Penelope turned her head – glancing at the grandfather clock. She frowned. _What the devil? _"We have ten minutes to make ourselves presentable," she said. Her lips kissed him one last time, and she slid off the desk – tugging her bloomers back into their original position. "At least you did not attempt the chemise-destroying maneuver you have so well employed in the past," she added with a smile. "I am wearing my best pair of bloomers." Penelope appeared flushed, but not any more so than when Francis Templeton had left the library.

"But we have a full twenty minutes," Deane protested. There was much he could do within twenty minutes. Penelope straightened her skirt.

"Templeton will have surely alerted Mrs. Jennings!" She shook her head, curls against her white neck. "And if I know Mrs. Jennings, she will arrive ten minutes early – with the servants – to spy any embarrassing condition I may have rendered against myself so that she can relay it to mutual acquaintances." Penelope pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to him. "Are you going to pull up your trousers, or shall I?" Her green eyes sparked something within his throat that he could not even name.

At precisely twenty past, Mrs. Jennings arrived as predicted. Penny was sitting at her father's desk once more, maps back where he had originally placed them – chin resting on her hands with her elbows on the desk. Deane was sitting convivially near her, reading aloud from one of the books he picked off the floor. Two servants – one of the maids he had kissed previously as part of his experiment, the one with the raven-colored hair – were in tow. The footman bore a familial resemblance to the butler, and he carried a tray with lemonade, cold sandwiches and the requested cold compress.

Winston Hillsworth himself strode into the room after the servants, an air of concern about him that quite astonished Deane. "Are you unwell, Daughter?"

"I have felt worse, Father, but have often felt better. I believe I should retire to my room in lieu of lunch," Penelope said. She allowed Mrs. Jennings to touch her face with the cold compress, the older woman clucking over how flushed she appeared.

"Winston!" The old widow snapped, the ridiculous flowers on her equally ridiculous hat bobbing with the force of her head twisting towards their host. "Penelope has come down with a fever." Penelope's green eyes narrowed dangerously at the use of her father's name, sharpening into points that should have ripped through the old widow's back when Penelope's own name was muttered so familiarly. Yet Penelope was able to drop that expression as quickly as one did breathe the moment Mrs. Jennings looked in Penny's direction.

"A most potent one, I am afraid." Penny's voice was soft, and her eyes were downcast. "It was only through the good fortune of Mr. Winchester's deliverance that I have been afforded some measure of peace." She picked up the glass of lemonade. "Thank you for supplying me with a jug, Martin," Penelope added with a smile at the young man. He returned her smile shyly. "And I see that Mary has already provided me with a light repast."

Winston Hillsworth's steely-eyed gaze turned towards Deane. "You have my thanks, sir, for the kind assistance you offered my daughter." His mouth twisted. "And I see that she has cajoled you into reading for her."

Deane grinned. "Your daughter is uncommonly fond of the written word," he returned, closing the book in his hands. He rose to his feet, shaking Winston Hillsworth's extended hand. "If it is required, I would be delighted to lend my aid in transporting Mrs. Harcourt to her room."

Mrs. Jennings strode to his side, pinching his upper arm with her claw-like fingers. Deane grinned once more – Penelope was glaring at the widow's back with such a possessive tilt to her head that Deane felt unaccountably otherwise lightened by Mrs. Jennings' hand on his arm. "You are a well-developed young man, Mr. Winchester. So unlike your aesthete younger brother."

Deane's eyes narrowed, but he chuckled pleasantly. _No wonder she glares at you like this, you blasted woman._ "Do not let my brother's lanky form cause you to misjudge his athletic nature, Madame. I warrant there are few dangers in this world my brother cannot withstand." _And God himself help me when he cannot._ "Shall I carry your daughter to her room, Lord Hillsworth?" Deane asked with a smirk.

"Carry?" Penelope was on her feet, and her voice snapped with its usual fire. She looked as though she had tasted a very sour swallow of lemonade. "I can easily walk to my own room under self-directed locomotion, Mr. Winchester!" Her green eyes flickered towards the faces in the room.

Lord Hillsworth's shoulders shook as his laugh bellowed through the library. "You are a droll young man, Mr. Winchester." He patted Deane on the arm. "But perhaps you should simply offer your arm. My daughter has been peculiarly mellow on this visit and Penelope may even allow you to escort her to her room if you ask politely." And suddenly, the look on his face sharpened – and Penelope's eyes glimmered between her father's face and Deane's countenance. "I look forward to your quaint wit at lunchtime. You have the look of one who would greatly amuse me," Winston Hillsworth added.

"Father!" The expression on Penelope Harcourt's face reduced Deane to a snort, and she rolled her eyes. "You cannot be serious." Winston said nothing, but the look he gave his daughter reminded Deane of his father. She sighed. "Very well then, Mr. Winchester." Penny moved from around the desk, and offered him her hand. "You may accompany me to my room."

"It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Harcourt," Deane returned with a smile. Penny frowned when Mrs. Jennings obviously turned to her father and said _something _that made the old man laugh.

When the library door closed behind them, Martin scurried down a side passage with the tray of lemonade and sandwiches. They said nothing until their footsteps passed into the old wing – and, even so, Penelope looked about them before she spoke. "My father likes you, Mr. Winchester." Her hand tightened on his arm. "As do I, Deane," she added softly.

"He all but threatened me if I did not join him at lunch!" Deane shook his head. "And you are just as perverse. Why did _you_ rail against my company?"

Penny paused next to him, one finger upraised mischievously. "Misdirection."

"Misdirection?" Deane's voice was a hiss as they reached the door to her suite.

She nodded, opening the door. "The more my father feels that I dislike you, the more feverishly he will endeavor to ensure that all our spare time is spent in each other's company." Penelope actually grinned at him. "And we have given that horrible woman a rumour to spread that is as far from the truth as it could be." She started to close the door.

"Are you not allowing me inside?" Deane's eyes widened.

Penelope shook her head, the scent of flowers wafting towards him. "You _are _to meet my father for lunch, Mr. Winchester. It is how we maintain the illusion." Deane found himself staring at the wooden door, one hand set upon it. He heard a noise on the other side, and Deane would have sworn he perceived the sound of her breathing on the other side of the door – as though she was resting her head upon it. "But I _will_ be here when you are done," she said.

Deane said nothing to that, turning on his heel as he made his way to the Dining Room. The woman _was_ too clever by half. _If anyone could..._

It was a thought he would never allow himself to finish.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_I feel as though I am pressed beyond all limits of my endurance._

_On any other afternoon, I would bemoan the high expectations I placed upon my attendance at Father's conference._

_But this afternoon, I can no more easily explain why I considered such a possibility, why it mattered so greatly that Peter Harcourt's name be forever linked to Science, than I could the principles behind Samuel Winchester's Electro-Analyser._

_In the short history of my life, there have only been two men who mattered. Peter Harcourt was the second. He was charming. He was witty. He was certainly intelligent. But Peter was obsessed with immortality, squandering his gift to pursue strange experiments with that group of men while I did his work, an association that grew upon his thoughts when it was clearly evident that I could not conceive. Only Vertiline saw the lengths to which Peter Harcourt would travel in pursuit of that goal – including the servants' quarters._

_After he died, I believed that it was my duty to guarantee the only legacy I could provide – while ensuring that Agnes' sons received the best care possible. But today marks the end of my duty to Peter Harcourt._

_The world, much to my chagrin, is no longer an orderly progression of facts. How can one's life be a paean to duty when the world in which you lived turns out to be the lie? What is my biggest discovery? That the stories Mary relayed to two young girls -- whether to scare us or impart knowledge, I can no longer say – are true. And the boy who figured so prominently in my early life now hunts them as a full-grown man._

_Deane Winchester was my first friend, the boy who patiently listened to every tale I would relay regarding the faeries I saw. When my mother passed, and I put away childish things to assist my father in her stead, only one hope remained: That Deane Winchester would come home, and our friendship would continue as though it never ceased._

_Even so, I do not know what possessed me to send the letter. I suspect it was Vertiline's amorous fancies towards Alexander Worthington – all those poems she wrote, and her demand that I write a love letter to keep her company. So why I chose to write Deane Winchester, I cannot say. I think it was important that he know I remembered him, that my friend who lost his mother so many years before realized that I now understood his loss. I dispensed so much of myself into the letter, I considered it the most final of rejections when he did not respond to me._

_And I vowed, no further, to think upon him._

_A vow quickly broken the moment he said, "I never forgot you, Penny." Only a fool could not see it written as truth so plainly on Deane Winchester's face. And I needed him – not as solace for my day, or even in remembrance of what could have been had he come back. If I believed he meant to stay, perhaps I would not be so reckless – building up memories for the rest of my life._

_If this were one of Vertiline's melodramas, she would render us as star-crossed lovers – separated by years and too many differences to consider towards anything but an ill-timed fortune._

_And as alone as I have been for four years, Deane Winchester is even more so. He is a Scoundrel, a man who relies upon his wit and charm, but fights for those who could never know the truth of this world, and all the while alone. Certainly, he has Samuel – but there is something lost in his brother's eyes that Samuel Winchester does not hold. A burden that Samuel does not carry, and I wonder…_

_I wonder a great many things, actually. Why his loss calls to me, in ways it should not? Or why I am willing to risk so much – my reputation, perhaps even my very life – for him. How does one go back to a normal life when one knows the truth? There is more to this world than even I know, and two brothers who fight against that darkness should not do so alone._

_I am going to help him._

_And the most shocking conclusion of all is why I would do so. I can say this with all certainty: I did not love Peter Harcourt. Those who read this journal, after so many volumes that spoke to the contrary, will find no more shocking a confession within its pages. I felt mild affection beyond my duties, to be certain, but those affections are minute compared to what I feel after mere days with Deane Winchester._

_The obvious conclusion, of course, is that these feelings are simply the by-product of a physical passion long subdued. But if that were so, why do I feel as though my chest will break every time I consider the chance that they – that Deane – may die. One wrong move – one wrong thought – could bring about the death of two good men. Samuel is quickly becoming my friend and his older brother…is something else entirely to me._

_So I ask: Is it even possible that childish feelings could reawaken to this? After mere days? I do not know. I certainly would not have foreseen the prospect after ten hours alone with him in a carriage. Perhaps we are star-crossed after all…_

_But I hope that it is true. I hope_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Lunch was more pleasant a meal than Deane had expected, despite the lack of Penelope's presence throughout the repast. Had Samuel told him that Deane Winchester would miss the presence of a woman – simply for her _conversational skills_ – he would have laughed and done something suitably annoying to his younger brother; ruffling Samuel's perfectly parted hair being the preferred method under such circumstances.

Even so, Winston Hillsworth was an affable gentleman, well taken with Deane's jests, and seemed to be quite interested in the whereabouts of his father. Deane supposed that Lord Hillsworth and John Winchester had been friends, when the Winchesters lived in the area. Deane would have preferred a meal without the company of Almira Jennings, but one does not always receive the things for which one wishes.

Deane Winchester was well acquainted with that adage, in truth.

Once the meal was completed, Winston excused himself to return to his conference – but likewise invited Deane to join them after dinner in the Billiards Room for an evening of drunken debauchery. _After all, old boy, your brother is a Practitioner. We have no secrets from you. _Deane was unused to such attentions beyond the time he spent with his father, and he found himself agreeing to join the old man for after-dinner brandy.

Deane had acquired an apple trifle for Penelope, and he carried it in one hand as he walked through the house. He looked around himself carefully to ensure that no one – particularly the unwelcome Mrs. Jennings or the odious Francis Templeton – was nearby as he passed into the older wing of the house. As exhilarating as their interaction in the library was, Deane was unwilling to risk additional exposure. _For Penelope's sake._

Deane knocked once on Penelope's door, but she did not answer. He did not hear any noise from within, and the sharp undercurrent of fear twisted through his stomach. _I heard not a sound, Deane, as I entered the parlour; but there she was, as though she were pinned to the ceiling, staring down at me open-mouthed._ Had his presence so close to home already alerted the Beast to Penelope Harcourt? Samuel had been courting Jessica Moore for over a year. Deane twisted the doorknob quietly, stepping as silently as possible into the room; his entire frame on guard as he took in the front room to her suite. He set the trifle on her writing desk.

The door to her inner room was ajar. Of all the places it could taunt _him_, her bedroom would be an appropriate choice for the Beast haunting his family. He closed his eyes, envisioning her upon the ceiling the way that Father had described – one arm reaching towards him, Penelope's mouth open as her curls swirled around her. What if the demon were waiting for the perfect moment, to feel his distress at seeing her – at feeling her blood drip upon his forehead, as it did with Samuel and Jessica Moore in her family's parlour? What would he do if he spied Penelope's silent scream mere seconds before fire engulfed the room?

Deane moved like a ghost, pushing the door open slowly, and saw her figure upon the bed. He did not even realize he was holding his breath until he expelled it – but his heart still stumbled in his chest. Penelope lay on her stomach, head resting on her arm. There was a book in front of her, and it appeared that she fell asleep in the midst of writing in her journal. The fact that she was wholly unclothed – the bedclothes slipped around her thighs, hair undone and in curls around her – caused Deane no amount of distress.

_I should be with her. _

Deane walked back into the outer room of her suite and locked the door. _We all have things we leave behind, son. _Deane remembered his father's advice as he stared at Penelope's sleeping form. _And she is a millstone to our cause, Deane. Can you tell me you would not go to her, if you thought she would have you?_ If anyone could engender a different choice within Deane Winchester, it was the girl who wrote him a letter for his sixteenth birthday – and the Penny Hillsworth he had discovered in those words was the most perfect girl towards which a sixteen-year-old could aspire.

Penelope stirred on the bed at the noise, but did not awaken. Dean walked quietly into her bedroom, locking that door as well. _I have news for you, son._ And the news was not broken gently. _That girl from Westshire. She was married last week, on Christmas Day._ The same day that he and Father were fighting gargoyles on an old church in Budapest. _We were invited, Deane. Winston Hillsworth is one of my oldest friends. Do you understand why we did not attend?_ On hearing that, Deane had nearly raised his hand to his father, soundly punching him in the jaw; Deane saw John Winchester sprawl backwards with the force of his blow within his mind's eye.

But Deane had done nothing but agree with his father. _Yes sir, I understand. The demon – I know why I can never have her. _Father had nodded, a grim look in his eye and a bottle of absinthe in his hand. The memory of Penny Hillsworth was a temptation he did not need.

Yet the moment that temptation was dangled in front of him, Deane Winchester's only protest was to say, "We cannot do this, Penny," before undressing her. _She is a target now –I am no better than I was when she was four, and I was cajoling her to kiss my freckles._

He sighed, taking off his waistcoat and setting it neatly on the back of a chair, before Deane efficiently folded all of his clothing; those he placed upon the chair at the foot of the bed. _Samuel would be impressed that I did not merely rip them off in my haste to be with her._ He was just about to slip under the bedclothes when he remembered Penelope's journal. Deane padded around to the other side of the bed, and gently removed the quill from Penny's fingers. His eyes glanced down at the distinctive writing on the page.

Deane blinked. He knew he should not read it, that it was a violation of Penelope's privacy, but what his eyes set upon brought with it shock and desire all at once, stopped in his throat. _Is that even possible? That childish feelings could reawaken to this? I do not know. I certainly would not have foreseen the prospect after ten hours alone with him in a carriage. But I hope that it is true. _

She had been in earnest.

Deane slipped the journal from underneath her hand, removing the temptation of reading it further – closing it quickly and setting it on the nightstand next to her. The curve of her back, however, was an enticement he could not avoid, and Deane leaned forward to kiss her shoulder blade. Penelope shivered, moving once more, but did not open her eyes. He strode to the other side of the bed, and settled under the covers. Deane put his arms around her, pulling her towards him as he breathed in the scent of her hair.

"Penny," he said. There was danger in wanting to declare too much to her – even when Penelope Harcourt was sleeping. The reality of the woman was more intoxicating than the memory of the girl. There was a short gasp as Penelope twisted in his arms, smiling at him sleepily. Her lips were soft against his, opening to him as he thrust his tongue against hers.

"You came back to me," she said, her voice unfocused, when he stopped kissing her.

Dean grinned. "I promised."

"I can almost forgive your tardiness," Penelope murmured, hands in his hair.

"Almost?" he whispered, bringing his lips down to caress the points of her ruby-tipped globes. Once begun, it was a task that Deane could not stop. She arched into his mouth, hands scratching into his back more forcefully than Deane would have surmised – even given their performance in the library. Penelope trembled against him.

"There are other – " Penny's head flung backwards. "Places to touch."

"One must take the chance to explore perfect specimens whenever a promising opportunity arises." Deane chuckled, lips brushing against her left breast.

Penelope pushed him onto his back. "You are bordering on genius, Mr. Winchester." She pushed down against him. Deane groaned as her hips crashed against his, and he entangled his hands in her hair as she pushed towards the last gasp of joy. He caught her cry in his mouth, her gasp within the fervent fit against his lips.

"Have I suitably apologized for my tardiness?" Deane asked, voice low in his throat when she had stopped shuddering against him.

Green eyes focused on his face, still drowsy, and she leaned down to kiss him again. "I am not certain. Twenty years is a very long time." She shivered.

Deane tossed her over onto her back. "Twenty years is a cruel allegation. I was a child."

"Ten years, then," she returned, her hands scratching down his back as the dance between their bodies began once more.

"Even then…" Deane's voice trailed off as he lowered his head. _We all have things we leave behind, son. _"I was sixteen, Penny."

"Six years." Her eyes bore right into his. _That girl from Westshire. She was married last week, on Christmas Day._

Deane brought his mouth down hard upon hers, thrusting vigorously. "You would have come with me?" _Even if it meant your death?_ His voice was gruff, cracking as self-loathing and desire crashed against each other, and her eyes widened as he accelerated his pace. Her mouth opened, and she moaned against his shoulder.

He was relentless, pushing her into the mattress with so much force the bed itself shook beneath him. _Do you understand why we did not attend?_ Each unspoken word was punctuated by another fierce thrust, and Deane did not even stop to answer the question – Penelope Harcourt, staring down at him from the ceiling while the air around them burned. In the short moment he fell into her arms, crying out in wild rapture, Deane Winchester knew one truth.

_No demon will ever hurt **you**._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Penelope sighed, shifting on the sheets underneath her. She was leaning against the headboard. The air in the room was chilly, goose bumps raising on her arms. Everything was larger than it had been before – the sounds of the rain outside, still pounding into the earth. The sound of Deane's breathing as he lay his head on her stomach, eyes closed. The crack of her heart stumbling in her chest. Her fingers brushed through his hair as he slept, and he stirred only when she stopped.

_You would have come with me?_

Her outburst, in truth, had not been fair. Penelope knew why he had not come for her. She would not have gone with him then – there was duty, and there were promises – but no such proscription remained. Penelope Harcourt would leave with Deane Winchester, if he but asked her to do so. It was fact, as sure as anything she knew – the movements the stars made in the sky, the touch of a bird's feather when it was wet, the spelling of her own name. She would dare anything – including the scorn of Society and gossips the like of Mrs. Jennings – to ensure that whenever Deane Winchester slept, he would have the smile she always remembered playing across his face.

Deane's eyes blinked open, his arms tightening around her, and he focused on her face. "Have you been keeping watch over me all this time?" he asked, that same small smile flashing towards her, his hazel eyes defenseless as her fingers still brushed his hair.

"You have only been napping for thirty minutes," she returned.

He frowned. "And _you_ have been thinking. It is what intellectuals do, is it not?"

"Thinking?" Penelope blinked.

Deane wrinkled his nose. "You have been thinking about our next steps. How do we vanquish the Beast? How do we locate its lair? What type of precautions must we take to ensure no other innocents are killed? How do I help Deane Winchester convince his younger brother that the straight part only makes him appear more aesthete?" The last he could barely manage with a straight face.

Penelope laughed, his arms tightening around her. "You are not only a genius, Deane Winchester. You are a veritable mind reader." She shook her head, curls falling around both of them when she did so. She giggled when Deane blew a stray curl out from his face. "The world _must_ be saved from your younger brother's hair, Deane."

"There is no better thing we can do together, Penelope Harcourt."

"_I _would not go so far as to say such." Penelope pitched her voice low, watching Deane's hazel eyes darken at her promise. "But as our families have no secrets now, I must know."

He made a face. "If we have no secrets, it is because of your blasted cousin," Deane replied sourly, but his eyes were dancing when he looked into her face. "What must you know, Penelope Harcourt?"

"Does your brother use a ruler to engender that part, or is he so practiced now he can simply arrange his hair by using a mirror?" Deane started to tickle her underneath her arms, and she twitched – trying to twist away from his questing hands. "Or do you have a valet secreted somewhere in your baggage? Oh, a spirit who performs feats of hairdressing is indebted to your family, and since your hair just requires you to shake your head while it is wet, all of its power is used to maintain your brother's perfect part?" Penelope added with another laugh.

His face was suddenly serious, and Deane stopped caressing her sides long enough to intone, "He built a gadget for it."

Penelope's mouth dropped. "You are kidding."

"I _am_ kidding," Deane snorted. "But you were correct, Penelope. He uses a ruler – which certainly tarnishes the Winchester image, does it not? My studious little brother dresses his hair with a _ruler_."

"In retrospect," Penelope added with as serious a tone as Deane had used earlier, "The gadget would have been significantly more impressive for the Winchesters' tarnished image."

"Are you quite positive, Penelope?" He looked unconvinced by her assertion.

She nodded. "In all good faith, Deane, I _am_ a scientist. Anything that whirs and expels steam while parting your brother's hair is far more impressive than a ruler and a _comb_." Deane looked upon her as though she had lost her mind. "Do you suppose he could configure the contraption to wash and oil his hair prior to the parting procedure?" Penelope added. "That would suitably increase the magnitude of its grandeur."

Deane burst out laughing, snorting into her abdomen, as his arms squeezed around her waist. "We must determine a method to insert that suggestion into a conversation. The look upon his face – " He snorted once more. "Can you relay that suggestion once more using that exact turn of phrase without sounding contrived? We shall lose the effect if it appears artificial." Hazel eyes narrowed. "In _front _of your cousin?" Deane added.

"You are a wicked man, Deane Winchester." Penelope chuckled, grabbing onto his arms with both her hands. "I do not jest. What has my poor cousin done to you, save refuse your kisses?"

Deane moved up her body, nuzzling at her neck. "That is no bad thing, to my mind, at this juncture." She gasped as his teeth grazed against a particularly sensitive spot near her clavicle. "You are more than enough for me," he added.

"And best you keep it that way," Penelope retorted. He started suddenly. _There must have been others… _She meant it as no reprimand – Penelope certainly did not come to him without knowledge of cleaving. "I am a jealous woman, even when my cousin is involved," she added, watching his face. Penelope sighed. "I _almost_ lost my temper with Mrs. Jennings in the library." A smile flickered across his face when she said that; _any_ good-natured person would be hard-pressed not to lose their temper with Mrs. Jennings factored into the equation.

"Oh, I am yours, Penny Hillsworth," he said softly. Deane moved to his side and rested his head against her shoulder, caressing her torso with his free hand. His hazel eyes looked upon her, and she smiled at him – which did little to relieve his distress. Deane opened his mouth several times as though to say something before closing it again with an abrupt shake of his head.

"Are you unwell, Deane?"

He tried to smile, a wry twist to his mouth. "That is an excellent question, Penny." Deane kissed her shoulder. "Do you know how my mother died?" he asked, voice almost a whisper in his throat.

Penelope's throat swelled, and she nodded. "I know that she died in a fire. Father never spoke of it, although Mother would tell me that I should know when I was older." She put her arms around him, pulling him closer.

"My mother was killed by a demon, Penelope Harcourt." Deane's voice was ragged, and she swallowed. "She was attached to the ceiling above Samuel's cradle, her stomach sliced open. My mother's blood dripped upon my little brother's forehead, before she was engulfed in fire. There were drops on his forehead when…Father – " His voice was clinical, reciting the facts for her benefit. "Father handed Samuel to me while he tried to save my mother. I ran as far and as fast as I could to evacuate ourselves, but my mother was lost. The next morning, we were ensconced in your guest room. The rest you know. My father has spent twenty-three years hunting the Beast that killed my mother."

_This is why he fights for innocents. He was one._

He burrowed next to her. "Father went missing, and I traveled to Oxford to ask Samuel for assistance. Samuel had been receiving visions regarding…" Deane shook his head. "He did not speak of them at first, and I only discovered the truth after Samuel agreed to help me find Father. We believe he is on the trail of the Creature who killed our mother, so Samuel and I are traveling through Europe following what small clues he has left for us. So far, we have been unsuccessful in our attempts to find him."

She turned her head to look at him, and was utterly unsurprised when he kissed her softly before continuing. "Samuel would not have come with me, Penny, except – " Deane swallowed, his eyes shining as they stared once more into hers. _And there it is – the loss in your eyes._ Penelope kissed him abruptly, cutting off what he was going to say. She did not care; kissing him was imperative, and it was several moments before Deane could begin speaking.

He coughed. "Jessica Moore. He was courting a young lady named Jessica Moore. She died…in a fire. His first vision was of her death." Deane's arms were so tight about her that it was as though he were forcibly restraining her – as though Penelope's only thought was to scurry away from him. Penelope gasped in spite of herself.

"Samuel came upon her, and he remembered Father's tales regarding the particulars of our mother's death. Jessica was killed the same way. Once she died, I no longer had to beg my brother to join me on the search. Cold vengeance did what I could not." Deane's hold upon her was so constricting at that moment, Penelope could scarcely breathe. "And I think…" His voice trailed off.

_That I will find the same fate. _She kissed his cheek, twisting in his arms. Penelope had questions, so many questions presenting themselves into her mind. What were the conditions that led up to the fire? Were there any physical similarities between the victims? Had anyone thought to investigate the area of the fire? If Samuel was gifted, it was not so far a stretch that his mother was gifted as well. _Like Verd… _Perhaps that was the key to the attacks? Penelope felt a chill in her stomach. Even _she_ was supposed to have a Gift, for all that Penelope set aside such childish fantasies.

Deane was looking at her, his eyes daring a response. She frowned suddenly, and he recoiled in her arms. "I think…" Penelope said as she found her voice again. He looked so hurt that there was nothing else to do but tell him the truth. "I think that I could fall down the stairs tomorrow, or catch a cold that turns to something else within my lungs. That is how my mother died. And my husband? Peter was attacked by an assailant in his study at Fillmont while I _slept _in the upstairs bedroom," she added. "This is simply another possibility to append to an extended list."

Deane said nothing – but he kissed her, his mouth almost vengeful against hers; his entire form shook as though he would compel her to stay, his hands taut against her body. She was not leaving – Penelope was bruising him in her urgency, grazing him sharply with nails and teeth. He had to know that _she_ would never leave _him_. It was not that she was unafraid of the black-hearted Creature, but rather that she was petrified of how more lost they would both become.

He did not seem to understand that Penelope Harcourt desired – no, she _needed_ – Deane Winchester in such a multitude of ways that she could never give them voice; the only voice he understood was the groaning of his name. Perhaps he heard more than just his name. Perhaps Deane Winchester heard its true meaning.

_I am **not** losing you again.

* * *

_

A/N:

There were more references to _Much Ado About Nothing_ in this chapter. There were also, to the clever eye, glimpses of _Frankenstein_ within the text. I leave both to my Gentle Readers to discover.

The phrase Penelope whispers to Deane on the desk – "Poor Wandering One" – is from the song of the same name, found in the utterly fantastic _The Pirates of Penzance_. If you are curious as to why Deane wondered whether she was in earnest, perhaps a review of relevant lyrics would provide more details as to what Penelope was offering him.

Penelope's marriage was not, as some may surmise, as happy as she initially portrays – even to herself. Women were often placed in such untenable positions due to their duty to family and husband; even when a husband has an assignation with a maid to prove the infertility that plagued the relationship was not his own.

Obviously, the hair-parting gadget now needs to be built. It is a moral imperative.

The more robust version of this chapter can be found at my fanfiction Livejournal: xstrangeangels. Certain elements have been downplayed to adhere to ratings. (And if I didn't succeed and more needs to be cut, please let me know.)

And, as always: Criticism is always welcome, and comments are the happy things which make this fangirl dizzy.


	6. Wherein the Signs of a Conspiracy

_**By Gaslight**_

Twenty-two years ago, Mary Winchester — the beloved Wife of John Winchester and adored Mother of Samuel and Deane Winchester — was cruelly lost within a fire that claimed the Winchester family's home. Since that day, a bereaved John Winchester has traveled throughout Europe, tracking the foul creature that perpetrated such a cruel trick upon his family; raising his sons to follow in his footsteps.

Armed with Samuel's inventions and Deane's uncanny ability to bring down any prey, the brothers Winchester travel through Great Britain and Europe, following clues they receive in the form of mysterious letters — and Samuel's disturbing visions.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys, even within this incarnation, are regrettably not my creation. Likewise, the idea of the weapons they use owes more to Jules Verne than to my own devising. And while Mr. Winchester's peculiar mode of transport has not yet made an appearance, its particular execution also does not belong to me. However, I will take full and knowledgeable blame for impinging upon your senses with this entirely silly romp through a very different Victorian England.

Characters: Samuel Winchester, Vertiline Lucas, Deane Winchester, Penelope Harcourt, Winston Hillsworth, Almira Jennings, and a cast of minor characters too numerous to recall.

Pairings (Overall): Deane/OFCs, Samuel/OFC

Rating (Overall): M

Rating: M (Naughty Victorian escapades and not inconsequential angst.)

Summary: Samuel determines that the situation in Westshire is much graver than even he anticipated, while Vertiline makes a shocking discovery of her own at Highchurch Manor.

Feedback: I would consider you most kind if you would do so.

Miscellaneous: This lovely little homage to Romance and Adventure owes its sparkle to the ever-radiant wenchpixie. This chapter is dedicated to Rozzy07, who finally has gotten her wish regarding a certain Winchester's dashing appearance.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Wherein the Signs of a Conspiracy are Observed and a Grave Wound is Examined**

The rain began falling minutes after they left the grounds, nothing more forceful than a peaceful mist sparkling through the trees. When she was a child, Vertiline adored mornings such as this; she and Penelope would tramp through the countryside, firm in the knowledge that there was Magic and Mystery in the world; knowing that every tree had its spirit, and every flower its purpose. Their very steps guided by no little Luck.

Vertiline Lucas had always been blessed in _that_ regard, for all that Fate itself enjoyed marking her life with hardship. She could think of no other explanation regarding her survival when she was but six months old, and traveling to Highchurch with her parents. Aunt Cecily would never say what they found at the accident site – simply that Vertiline had been discovered underneath a small canopy of flowers, unharmed and not far from the wreckage; the sole survivor of the incident.

Aunt Cecily was the greatest blessing of all, truth be told. Vertiline loved Uncle Winston – there were few better men within the whole of England – but she missed her Aunt fiercely. While she was growing up, her aunt would tell her stories about her parents so that Vertiline would never forget them – so that they would be a reality to their daughter, something more tangible than a portrait in the Main Hall. It was their own small ritual, the secret that they shared every day without fail.

Not even Penelope knew about those stories.

As soon as she learned her letters, Vertiline had begun collecting her aunt's stories into journals – Grand Tales of Adventure featuring two young girls named Rosalind and Cecily. Whenever she felt particularly lonely, Verd would review her oldest writing, fingers touching her childish scribbles; she was always struck by how similar her childhood was to her mother's – for Penelope was, despite their relation, more sister than cousin.

A crack of thunder broke into Vertiline's thoughts, and she realized that the rain was beating into the ground – heavy drops hanging off plants and trees as they passed. She glanced at Samuel Winchester, walking steadily beside her. The rain was sheeting off whatever pomade he used when dressing his hair, dripping onto his shoulders. He appeared utterly miserable.

"We can share my umbrella, Mr. Samuel," she said.

"That would be unseemly, Miss Lucas," her companion replied, but there was a small smile upon his face. "I would not want it said that a Winchester needed to rely upon a woman to keep him safe from the rain."

Vertiline laughed. "I do not think it would be unseemly, sir, if you were to hold the parasol while we walked. A passerby might conclude that you are simply being a gentleman, and assisting the lady in question." She leaned towards him conspiratorially. "I could even hold my skirts above the ground to engender the proper effect."

"Your concern regarding my reputation is duly noted," Samuel Winchester remarked, gracing her with a smile that revealed both of his dimples. He moved underneath the umbrella and grasped its handle.

"If I were truly concerned for your reputation, there is something else entirely that I would rectify," she answered. He looked at her quizzically, while Vertiline slowed her pace and pulled off her right glove. She looked around them for sign of another's approach and then reached up to muss his hair – fortunately, the rain had loosened the pomade's hold, and she was able to fluff the hair to show his natural part. "There," she added, cocking her head as she looked upon Samuel Winchester critically. "_Now_ your reputation is saved."

"Truly?" Samuel Winchester's dimples were showing once more.

Vertiline found herself blushing. _I have not acted like this since I was twelve!_ "Truly. Only boys and supercilious men wear their hair in such a fashion," she answered, once she regained her voice. Her companion's blue-green eyes were a distraction Vertiline could ill afford under such circumstances. They had a murder to investigate.

She began walking once more, slipping her glove back into her hand. "Your Mr. Templeton wears his hair in such a fashion," he said, a dark tone underlying the observation.

"All the more reason that _you_ should not," Vertiline replied, an urgency in her voice that she could not mask, "As you are neither a boy nor a _supercilious_ man." But a part of her was angered at the presumption – Samuel Winchester was once nothing more than a name in a story that Uncle Winston would tell about their closest neighbors, and yet the man somehow felt the right to criticize her for a choice she had made without knowledge of him.

"I…" Mr. Samuel's voice trailed off, and he looked starkly ahead of himself as he spoke. "I wish I had met you earlier, Miss Lucas. Before your engagement was formalized."

"_Engagement?_" Vertiline started in spite of herself. She had always intended on marrying Francis Templeton – no other serious prospect had come forward, despite her reputed beauty. There were those who felt that the poor cousin would stray; when they learned that Vertiline valued her reputation far more highly than they did, such men moved on to more fertile pastures. Uncle Winston and Penelope had never viewed her as their Fanny Price, but they were not – as Vertiline was to learn through sore experience – the whole of Society.

"Are you not engaged?"

Vertiline shook her head. "No, we are not. He has permission to court me, sir." She touched his arm. "If he had spoken with my uncle regarding a more formal arrangement, I would surely know." Someone _must_ have told him a lie, and Vertiline possessed several suspicions. "_Who_ informed you otherwise, Mr. Samuel?" She frowned. "Was it that bla – " Vertiline coughed. "Was it Mrs. Jennings?" she added more decorously.

"No one divulged such information to me," he admitted. "I was merely attempting to determine whether or not my hypothesis was correct," Samuel Winchester added, and there was a raise to his eyebrows that left no doubt regarding his kinship to that scoundrel of an older brother. "I felt that by presenting its opposite, I would produce the desired response," he added.

"I _should_ be most put out with you, sir," she replied lightly. It was an explanation worthy of her cousin. "The outcome of our acquaintance relies upon your answer to a very simple question."

Samuel Winchester's lips were close to her ear, and his voice was low in his throat. "The answer to your question, Miss Lucas, is that I will be speaking with your uncle at the earliest available opportunity."

Vertiline felt the sting of the cool breeze against her warm cheeks, but her voice was just as low in her throat when she replied, "I will hold you to that, Mr. Samuel."

They walked down the road in silence after that, although Samuel Winchester stood as closely to her as propriety would allow; often shifting to shield her from the wind or holding the umbrella so that she was safeguarded from the brunt of the rain – even when that meant he would be likewise accosted by the weather. When she dared to look upon him, Samuel Winchester's cheeks were almost as red as her own and he appeared mildly stunned.

_Why have you not yet kissed me, Samuel Winchester?_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Samuel Winchester could have been walking amidst a hurricane, and he would not have noticed. His clever ploy to determine the status of Vertiline Lucas' relationship with the loathsome Francis Templeton resulted in a highly satisfactory outcome – so satisfactory that her response required all of his self-control to maintain his demeanor and refrain from dragging her into the woods to fulfill scenarios that rivaled any of which his brother could dream.

Left to his usual circumstances, Samuel would have spent weeks – perhaps even months – stumbling towards an acquaintance with the young woman. Vertiline Lucas, however, reminded him of Jessica Moore; not in looks or personality, but rather in the way both were able to entrance him simply by a tilt of the head or a smile when no one else was looking in their direction. Samuel Winchester had waited months – wasting them fruitlessly – before speaking to Jessica of his intentions; he did not think she would wish him to do so with Vertiline Lucas.

Samuel screwed his courage to the sticking place with a plan worthy of Deane.

He _was_ a Winchester, after all. A demon hunter who faced monsters the way most men faced deer on their estates. What was a conversation with one young woman – even one as intelligent as she was beautiful – compared to that eventuality? Deane would surely be amused by his younger brother's predicament, if somewhat bemused by Samuel's choice. His older brother had a preternatural charm which afforded him no such embarrassment when speaking to a member of the gentler sex – no matter the game he was currently playing with their host's daughter.

Samuel frowned, and then felt his cheeks flush as Vertiline Lucas glanced once more in his direction. He was acting like a schoolboy, instead of focusing upon the mystery within Westshire. Father would surely be put out with both of his sons; even Deane, who lived for the thrill of the hunt, was most likely cavorting with Penelope Harcourt under the guise of research. _Did he not push her backwards into the desk mere seconds after we took our leave? _

He took little solace in the fact that speaking with Mr. Norman was a valid step in their continued investigation – Samuel's mind informed him that he should have little guilt in visiting the mortician in Vertiline Lucas' company, but logic was often overruled by the memory of John Winchester's disappointed stare.

Samuel had disappointed his Father often enough while growing up. He sighed – his foot brushing against a rock as Samuel realized that he had forgotten to remind Deane to research the symbol on that poor boy's chest. It looked hauntingly familiar the more he had studied it, marking the edges of his consciousness with a memory he should have been able to recall. _And I should not have forgotten that reminder, despite Vertiline Lucas' blue eyes._

Frustration met him at every turn as they continued to walk down the road, the buildings of Westshire looming before them. Even in the rain, the town seemed inviting and Samuel could not forget the feeling that this should have been their home – not the back of carriages or sleeper cars. Deane never understood his desire for a normal life, the need for family and an existence marked by a child's laughter – not the screams of innocents as they ran from monsters.

"Should we visit the Constable first," Vertiline Lucas asked quietly once they reached the outskirts of Westshire, "Or would you prefer to meet with Mr. Norman?" She smiled brightly at one of the passersby, a young man who nodded once in her direction.

"Which office is closer?" Samuel asked.

"The Constable's office is off the main square," she said. "Mr. Norman's is closer." Vertiline swallowed, and when she glanced upon him, Samuel noted that her face had gone pale. "But I am worried about that visit, Mr. Samuel. I…" Her voice trailed off. "I am not my cousin, sir. I do not have the stomach for that type of investigation."

"We will inquire as to when the body shall arrive. I would not ask you to engage in any activity to which you are unaccustomed, Miss Lucas."

"I am no helpmeet in this endeavor, sad to say. I cannot even look upon a dead bird without emotion. How can I help you should other things come to pass?" She looked earnest.

Samuel's throat swelled. He wished to tell her so many things, but all he could remember was her comportment from the night before. "You are already braver than Francis Templeton," he said.

Vertiline Lucas snorted. "A mouse is braver than Templeton!" Her brilliant smile rewarded his effort, and she added, "Perhaps Penelope is correct. She often lectures me about such things." Her voice took on her cousin's tartness. "There is no reason to argue for your limitations, Vertiline. When you give such limitations voice, you give them power over you."

"Deane is forever providing his opinions regarding my behavior."

"You should be thankful that he is not widowed," Vertiline observed. "I love Penelope dearly, but some days she acts as though the grace of once being married automatically makes her a font of wisdom."

"In my brother's case, his wisdom derives from being the first-born." Samuel made his voice muted, like Deane's when they were hunting. "Are you _questioning_ me, little brother? Do you not realize that I am the oldest, which means that my conclusions are always the correct ones?"

"And yet _they_ are the ones staring at each other when they believe no one is watching – as though they possessed not one ounce of common sense between them." She frowned, pausing in her steps, and Samuel found that they were standing in front of the mortician's office. Vertiline looked as though she intended to say more on the subject, but then she swallowed. "Here we are, sir."

Samuel closed her umbrella as soon as she stood safely underneath the eave. The smells from the establishment were, if possible, stronger than they had been during their previous visit and his companion looked moderately ill. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it gently to Vertiline. "Perhaps if you covered your mouth and nose, the stench would not be so overwhelming?"

The young woman said nothing, staring down at the embroidered initial upon the piece of cloth, and then placed the handkerchief within her reticule. "I shall persevere, Mr. Samuel." Vertiline pushed open the door and walked briskly inside, her face going pale as the stench merely intensified.

Samuel followed, closing the door behind them. There was a rustle of noise in the backroom, and Mr. Norman suddenly appeared in the foyer – white apron covered in fresh bloodstains. Vertiline made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, but managed to steady herself upon her umbrella. The mortician's face beamed with his smile, and he absentmindedly wiped his apron with his hands. "Miss Vertiline! I was unaware that you had arrived home."

"I arrived yesterday morning, sir," she said softly. Vertiline swallowed, blue eyes focusing on Samuel standing beside her, and she gestured towards him with her glove-covered hand. "May I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Samuel Winchester?"

"We have already met," the mortician replied. He extended a hand enthusiastically in Samuel's direction, and then realized it was covered in another man's blood. Mr. Norman sighed, his eyes suddenly as beady as the pulp villain he appeared to be as the mortician brought his hand back to his side. "Are you here about the others, sir?"

"Others?" Samuel's voice was sharp within his own ears.

"Three murders last night," Mr. Norman replied. "Constable Brothers has the bodies, Mr. Winchester. He said he would be bringing them tomorrow morning. Apparently, he wishes to investigate them in more detail." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming above his sickly smile. "Imagines himself Sherlock Holmes, truth be told."

"I confess myself the victim of no small surprise," Samuel returned. He frowned. The Constable's desire to investigate the murders himself – while understandable and within the scope of a Constable's province – certainly impinged upon the Winchester's examination. "Lord Hillsworth had only been informed of the one death," he added.

"That would be old Pucky, sir. He was the one they found before breakfast, but only because his son witnessed the sad incident." Mr. Norman shook his head. "Not even noon and Weston says that Dan's already engaging in activities at the tavern." He raised his eyebrows, glancing in Vertiline's direction.

"The tavern is off the main square," Vertiline Lucas said. "We could surely see Constable Brothers on the way…" Her voice trailed off, and blue eyes flickered at the mortician – she realized that she had said too much in front of Mr. Norman.

The mortician snorted. "The Constable has closed his office. Only those with official business are being allowed into the establishment due to the 'state of the bodies.' Even I have not been allowed to see them." Mr. Norman shook his head. "But perhaps he would allow someone in Lord Hillsworth's employ to assist him?" Vertiline shot Samuel a startled look at the statement, and he surmised that Penelope Harcourt had not been forthcoming in her role in _that_ charade. She quickly recovered herself – acting as though something outside the window had captured her attention.

"Perhaps," Samuel replied. "Would you consider it untoward for my brother and I to visit in the morning?"

"Not at all." Mr. Norman smiled. "Be certain to bring Miss Penelope. My son will be home in the morning, and he has not seen her in years."

Vertiline's mouth twitched behind the fan that was suddenly in her hand. "I will be certain to let my cousin know that Alexander will be in Westshire," she added with a graceful nod of her blonde curls. "If you will excuse us, Mr. Norman. It was a pleasure visiting with you, as always." Her smile was brilliant as Samuel opened the door.

"Thank you for your time, sir," Samuel added as Vertiline walked once more outside, her umbrella opening before she walked into the street. The mortician nodded, brushing his hands on his apron, and left the foyer before the door had closed behind them. For no reason he could determine, Samuel felt a rustle within his stomach – and Vertiline's jaw was clenched as he joined her underneath the umbrella.

_If he has no bodies to examine, why is there fresh blood on his hands?_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The rain was falling so tempestuously, Vertiline could scarcely see in front of her through the deluge. Under normal circumstances, she would have waited underneath the eave of Mr. Norman's establishment for the storm to lessen. However, she had a purpose; if she could assist the Winchesters in their task, perhaps she could be equally successful in protecting her cousin. _And in proving to Samuel Winchester that I am more than just a pretty girl who should be at tea party. _

"Shall we attempt the Constable's office, Samuel?" She asked the question briskly. Perhaps he would overlook the familiar use of his name? "Or should we go directly to the tavern?" Vertiline added, daring to glance in his direction.

"It would be more thorough to endeavor to speak with the Constable," Samuel Winchester replied. "I would not wish Deane to assume that we were shirking our duties. Rest assured that he will ask after that avenue of the investigation." He smiled at her, his hand grasping the handle of her umbrella once more. "After we speak with this Mr. Daniel, perhaps you would join me for lunch." His dimples were clearly evident as he caught her eyes with his own. "Vertiline," he added.

"It would be my pleasure to accompany you, sir," Vertiline replied lightly. It suddenly did not matter that the rain had most likely ruined her newest pair of boots, not that the storm had muddied the hem of her favorite dress. Samuel Winchester wished to dine with her. _And he used my given name._

Their short walk to the Constable's office led them past the outdoor verandah where she had taken tea with Mrs. Jennings while Templeton had arranged for transport to Highchurch. Two magical days had brought the hope of _not_ marrying Francis Templeton – of no longer having to convince herself that he was an excellent match simply because she could _control_ his reactions so easily – and that was almost as heady as the dream that Samuel Winchester would consider Vertiline Lucas his equal.

No man in her experience had ever done so – even Uncle Winston preferred the direct intellect of his daughter versus the imagination of his niece. He would have married her off years ago, like he had done Penelope, if her cousin hadn't requested Vertiline as a companion after Peter Harcourt's death. Uncle Winston had called it a selfish wish, but Vertiline understood her cousin's true intentions – but one could only live upon the succor of family for so long, before one had to derive an alternative.

Vertiline made her choice at the earliest opportunity, and she had believed it was as much for her cousin's sake as it was her own, but now Vertiline Lucas had another choice to make in regards to Francis Templeton. He would need to be informed of the change in circumstance with all due haste.

The mere thought of her former suitor's reaction to the news that she would sever their connection brought with it a scowl, creasing Vertiline's brow just as the weasel-like face of Melvin Nestor came into view. The Constable's assistant looked miserable, standing in front of the Constable's office door with his arms folded across his chest with rain pouring down his overcoat. By the time his watery eyes fixed upon Vertiline's face, she was smiling graciously.

"Miss Vertiline!" Melvin Nestor proclaimed, a gap-toothed grin greeting her. "Pleasure to see you as always."

"And you as well, Mr. Nestor," Vertiline replied smoothly, inclining her head. "May I present Mr. Samuel Winchester?"

"_Winchester_?" Melvin's eyes narrowed – and, for a split second, his face darkened. Vertiline suspected that the look was fixed solely within her imagination, for he looked nothing more than a despondent man standing in the rain the moment she blinked. "I had heard a rumour that Sir John's sons had come home," the Constable's assistant added, extending his hand towards the man at her side.

"I am attending Lord Hillsworth's conference, sir," Samuel said, shaking the man's hand firmly. "And we are conferring with him regarding these peculiar disturbances plaguing Westhire."

"I see." There was no mistaking the antagonistic glare Melvin Nestor shot at Samuel Winchester; Vertiline was positive that had she not been in their presence, Melvin Nestor might have readily engaged in physical violence – so reddened the man's face had become. "That is _not_ his Lordship's concern, Mr. Winchester."

"But it is my _father's_ province," Samuel replied, his voice steely.

"You will find, sir, that your father is not thought of so kindly by everyone in Westshire," Melvin retorted. "He _abandoned_ us!"

Samuel Winchester looked as though he wished nothing more than for a lightning bolt to flash down from the sky and eradicate Melvin Nestor – soggy overcoat and all. While the man's demeanor had certainly earned him such a fate, Mr. Nestor's annihilation served no immediate purpose and, in truth, would surely complicate their cause.

Vertiline coughed gently into a gloved hand. "Surely you must agree, Mr. Nestor, that the loss of one's beloved wife does afford Sir John some measure of grief," she said, her voice gentle. "I would not wish to stay within Highchurch should such a tragedy befall it."

"There is that," the Constable's assistant returned gruffly. "So have you come here on _official_ business, Mr. Winchester?"

Samuel's nostrils flared, but his demeanor was otherwise calm. "We would like to meet with Constable Brothers."

"He is not here," Melvin said.

"When will he return?" Samuel asked.

Melvin Nestor's eyes were cold. "When he returns."

"Would it be possible to leave a message for the Constable, asking to contact my brother and I at Highchurch Manor?" Samuel's free hand clenched into a fist at his side, and Vertiline could feel the heat flushing off his face as anger once more consumed him. "It is important, Mr. Nestor."

"I will let the Constable know that you asked after him," Mr. Nestor conceded. "_When_ he returns."

"Thank you, sir," Samuel said shortly, with a brisk nod, before he turned abruptly and began walking away. The look Samuel Winchester flashed her once they were out of earshot was sheepish, and there was an apology dancing in his eyes. "You kept us from coming to blows, Vertiline. I am sorry to place you in such an insupportable position."

"If we are to become more readily acquainted, Samuel, it stands to reason that we will both see sides of the other that may not add to a favorable assessment of our character." Vertiline leaned her head as close to him as she could without calling attention to herself. "I am quite notorious for dressing up like a boy in my youth and stealing pies. Penelope was a _bad_ influence."

He chuckled at that, and then looked down at his shoes. "There is something very peculiar occurring within Westshire." Samuel's eyes darkened. "That vile man was definitely obscuring something more than simply the Constable's whereabouts."

"I confess I sensed nothing beyond his anger," Vertiline replied.

"The Constable was within his office, Vertiline."

"Are you quite certain?" she asked.

Samuel nodded. "I saw the curtain shift within the window, just enough to ascertain the hand which pulled it back to look outside." He caught her shocked glance with one of his own, and then his eyes softened. "No matter. We have established that no assistance shall be available from the Constable's quarter. Deane and I have often worked outside of legal boundaries." He sighed. "We are used to hunting alone."

"I cannot hunt, Samuel Winchester, and my cousin would undoubtedly make the same assertion," Vertiline declared hotly, "But neither of you are _alone_."

The smile he returned was inspiration for a dozen sonnets.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_I cannot hunt, Samuel Winchester, and my cousin would undoubtedly make the same assertion, but neither of you are alone._

It was an answer Samuel did not expect, and the flash in her eyes led him to believe that Vertiline Lucas was completely serious. He smiled suddenly, hoping to mask his consternation – the curse of the Winchesters did not allow for allies, save for those whose own quests were borne by need. Father believed that only those touched by the Supernatural understood the risks associated in fighting it.

"That large grey structure is the tavern," Vertiline said softly, returning his smile. The storm itself seemed to shirk from the brightness in her eyes, and Samuel was positive it would cease entirely when faced with such dazzlement the moment she stepped out from underneath the umbrella.

"It is a shame we are not in London," Samuel observed, holding the front door open and waiting for her to step inside. He watched her shake out her umbrella on the walk before entering the building. "There are several establishments to which I would take you."

"You may take _me_ anywhere you wish, Mr. Winchester." Vertiline Lucas's golden curls glowed within the tavern's gaslight, her head down turned as she stepped past him into the common room.

_If I do not immediately speak to her Uncle upon our return to the Manor, I am an idiot._

A young man, perhaps a few years older than Deane, was sitting on a stool near the bar itself; several empty pint glasses were scattered before him, along with an array of on-lookers. Several of them were pushing small tumblers filled with variously coloured liquids towards the man – including the unmistakable glow of absinthe. Samuel surmised that the poor drunken man was the object of their visit.

Vertiline sat down at the table nearest to the young man, concern clearly marking her features. She balanced her umbrella against the back of her chair, and waited silently for the proprietor to amble towards their table. He was an older gentleman dressed in well-kept clothing, a fringe of white hair about his head and sparkling green eyes that almost rivaled Vertiline's in sympathy.

"Miss Lucas," he said smoothly.

"Mr. Foxworth," Vertiline replied. She took his extended hand gently. "It has been entirely too long, sir."

"A little bird informed me that both you and your cousin had returned home," the tavern keeper responded.

"Mary is _not _a little bird!" Golden curls tumbled in the light as Vertiline laughed. She gestured towards Samuel with her free hand. "May I have the pleasure of introducing Samuel Winchester?"

"John Winchester's boy?" Mr. Foxworth patted him on the shoulder when Vertiline nodded. "I had never thought we would see the day when the Winchesters returned to Westshire." The tavern keeper shook his head. "Your mother was a wonderful woman, Mr. Winchester. A beautiful light was lost that terrible evening."

Samuel's throat was suddenly on fire, and he lowered his eyes. _How many people carry memories of a mother I have never known? _ If he closed his eyes, Samuel knew he would hear Deane's childish voice telling stories about Christmas and carols and walks in meadows during the summertime. "I thank you for your sympathy, sir."

"It is freely given. Winchesters are a part of Westshire. You cannot have the one without the other." The old man was patting his shoulder once more, beaming upon both of them. "May I offer mulled cider to ward you both from the chill?"

"That would be lovely." Vertiline smiled, but her sparkling blue eyes were subdued when she looked upon Samuel's face. She moved her hand as closely to his as she dared. "I do not suppose that you have yet perfected your beef and barley stew recipe, Mr. Foxworth?"

"I have been working all month on a new recipe," the man replied. "I could be persuaded to provide you both with samples for lunch."

"Mr. Foxworth's stews are legendary," Vertiline explained. "Although Mary is adamant that he has stolen every recipe she owns." She laughed softly into her hand, and then her expression changed – grave and serious. "I do not suppose that poor Mr. Daniel has eaten anything since arriving here?"

Mr. Foxworth shook his head. "Sadly, the only meal he has purchased was a pint of stout." He frowned. "All else have been gifts, thrust upon the poor boy by well-meaning friends."

"He will be joining us, then." The tone in Vertiline's voice brooked no argument. _She is bloody amazing._ She raised her voice. "Mr. Childers!" The young man's eyes focused on her, bleary and puffed from tears. "May we have the honor of your companionship during lunch?"

"Ver – " Daniel Childers shook his head. "I am no fit company for you, Miss. Miss Lucas."

"Do _not _make me relay the time my cousin and I – "

Daniel Childers rose abruptly to his feet. "No! _Please_." Despite his obvious grief, there was something of a smile flickering across his face. He shuffled towards their table, the stench of whisky reaching their nostrils well before he settled into his chair. His eyes focused on Samuel's face. "You that Templeton we hear is going to marry our Vertiline Lucas, then?"

Samuel steeled his features – Vertiline Lucas in shock was a wholly adorable creature – and merely replied, "No, sir. I am Samuel Winchester."

"Name sounds familiar." Mr. Childers scratched his neck absent-mindedly, raising his voice. "Oy! Westy! Ever heard of a Winchester?"

"Big house that burned down," one of the men at the bar returned.

"Oh." Daniel Childers blinked. _This is going to be a wonderfully informative meeting._ "You know the people who live in that big house?"

"Mr. Childers, he is Sir John's youngest son." Vertiline's voice was soft, and she looked more uncomfortable than she yet had since Samuel had met her. The grieving man looked as though he were thinking of something else to ask, and Vertiline pushed bravely forwards. "Mr. Winchester is attending my uncle's conference, but has been kind enough to offer his services regarding…" Her voice trailed off.

"Only way to be of service is to kill that damn thing," the man muttered. Mr. Foxworth arrived with three glasses of cider, and he placed them on the table while Daniel Childers continued. "It was unnatural, I tell you." He lowered his head, muttering into his chest. "No one bloody believes me." He raised his glass of cider, wincing as the hot liquid spilled onto his hand. "It was a monster, Miss Lucas!"

"A wolf killed his father right in front of him," Mr. Foxworth amended. "Poor boy couldn't get there in time to save him."

"Have you ever seen a wolf as big as a horse?" Daniel Childers demanded to the laughter that suddenly filled the common room, calls of '_More whisky!_' getting louder as Mr. Childer's frowned. "It had a roar that could turn a man's blood, and the grass burned underneath its feet." He leaned forward to grab Samuel on the arm. "Burned!"

It was the same creature – of that, Samuel Winchester was positive. Vertiline's face had gone white with the memory and what he assumed was no little guilt; they had chased off the creature, only to have it harm another that evening. He frowned. "Where did you see this creature?" Samuel asked.

"You do not believe I am touched, sir?" The grieving man's reddened eyes widened, and he suddenly began shaking Samuel's hand vigorously when Samuel shook his head. "My thanks, Mr. Winchester." Daniel Childers coughed, eyes narrowing as he focused upon the question. "We were in the back fields, near the Manor."

"Back fields?" Vertiline asked.

Mr. Childers nodded. "Da moved his cows to the back fields to rotate some of the grass. We heard the roar and went out running. Da's cows – " The man's voice broke.

"I know this is difficult for you, sir." Vertiline's voice was soft, and no one in the room would think her improper for placing one gloved hand on the man's forearm – so obvious was the sorrow in her eyes as she spoke. "My family is sorrier than you know, but I promise you this – Mr. Winchester and his elder brother will right as much of this wrong as they can."

Samuel caught his breath; no woman had shown such faith in him before – not even Jessica, who considered him an amiable Oxford student – although he would have preferred a less public display of such admiration. The damage, however, had already been made, and Samuel added, "We came to Westshire with no other view than to assist Lord Hillsworth in his attempts to rectify this issue."

Gasps echoed throughout the bar, and a toast was made in Winston Hillsworth's name, mostly in hushed tones from those men who had gathered around their table while Daniel Childers relayed the sad tale of his father's death. A curtain rustled in one of the private booths along the back wall, and Samuel spied a ringed hand as someone peered through before the curtain closed completely.

The ring was identical to the one he saw on the hand in the Constable's office.

_What the devil is going on in this place?_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Samuel Winchester was decidedly distracted on their return to Highchurch Manor, although Vertiline could not discern the cause of his consternation beyond the details presented by the bereft Daniel Childers during the remainder of their lunch – stories of his father, pulled from memory. She felt an unquestionable sorrow for the man, remembering how proud the elder Childers was of his prize-winning cows.

_Perhaps I have done something wrong?_

She coughed. The rain had lessened, only a slight shower now that afternoon luncheon had passed. Samuel's eyes focused upon her face, and he smiled wanly. "I have not been a dutiful traveling companion, Vertiline."

"On the contrary," she returned lightly, "You have answered every question I broached on the return home."

"With a one-word answer." Samuel's dimples were suddenly showing, and he shook his head. "You have my sincere apologies. It is just that…" His face seemed to pale, and he slowed his steps. "What do you know of the history of this place?"

"History would be my cousin's province," Vertiline said. "She has read most books in the library, save for those she deemed too fanciful for her notice." She returned Samuel's smile. "In fact, I suspect this morning marks the first time she even looked beyond the spine of the mythology books in the library." A thought occurred. "Although I suspect a continued union with your brother will ensure a not unforeseen association with such books in the future."

Samuel snorted as the gates to Highchurch's grounds came into view. "Mrs. Harcourt may be waiting a long time for union with _my_ brother."

"Will he hurt her?" The question dropped from her lips, cold as ice, and the look she gave Samuel Winchester caused him to blanch before her.

"Not intentionally," her companion stammered. "It is simply Deane's way to…leave."

"That will _not_ do." Vertiline pronounced as the sun burst forth from the clouds and the air was silent. It was no longer raining. She picked up her skirts and started to march briskly towards the gates.

"Vertiline!" Samuel called, quickening his pace to match hers. She glanced over her shoulder and he was closing the umbrella. "For that it is worth," he added softly, "I have never seen him look at a woman they way he watched your cousin this morning. Perhaps their relationship is none of our business?"

"Perhaps," she replied hotly, cheeks flushed. Vertiline laughed suddenly – Samuel Winchester made the same type of excuses regarding his elder brother's lecherousness that Vertiline often made regarding her cousin's ill temper, an explanation as to why the behavior was uncommon. While her anger towards the elder Winchester was no less diminished, she would not force such an unruly portion of her disposition upon the messenger of such tidings. "We are very protective of our family, are we not?" Vertiline added.

"Given our family, some may consider that a flaw." Samuel chuckled, a low laugh within his throat. "We shall have many evenings full of commiseration, I suspect."

"Consolation often breeds gentle affection." Vertiline smiled at him once more. "Do you not think so?" They passed through the gates, keeping a respectable distance between them as they came into view of the house.

"I will speak with your uncle presently," Samuel Winchester said as he opened the door, "And then I will find my brother. The four of us have many things to – "

"Miss Lucas!"

Whatever knowledge Samuel Winchester was about to impart upon her, it was silenced – hopefully not forever – by the high-pitched exclamation of Mrs. Almira Jennings. Staccato footsteps echoed towards them down the hall, as the points of the widow's boots clicked against the marble floor. "Miss Lucas!" she cried again, grabbing Samuel's arm to slow herself. "I bring grave news of your cousin."

"My cousin?"

Mrs. Jennings nodded. "Penelope collapsed before lunch. Mr. Winchester accompanied her to her suite." Samuel snorted, and the widow looked at him with a challenge in her eyes. "Even he is more of a gentleman than _you_ are, Mr. Samuel. Laughing at a widow's distress. Your brother, at the least, took pity upon her."

"I was not amused by Mrs. Harcourt's distress," Samuel returned, a smile that Vertiline hoped no one else could recognize flickering in his eyes. "I was simply marking my astonishment at Deane performing any type of genteel service."

"Given his comportment with the maids, I confess to some surprise," the widow said calmly, her eyes gazing at Samuel thoughtfully, "Although he did join us for lunch immediately afterwards."

"Perhaps he has turned over a new leaf," Samuel said quietly, a strange expression crossing his features.

Vertiline shook her head. Her cousin was ill, and she was in the midst of a conversation regarding _Deane Winchester_ in the foyer. What possible ill will did Fate accord the Hillsworth women? Was not Penelope's condition the more important concern? Vertiline cared not whether Deane Winchester was acting like a gentleman; every scoundrel worth his salt could _act_ the gentleman. "Mr. Samuel. Mrs. Jennings!" They both looked in her direction. "If you will excuse me?" Mrs. Jennings nodded.

"Of course, Miss Lucas," Samuel stammered suddenly.

_Propriety be damned!_

Vertiline picked up her skirts once more, and went dashing down the hallway towards the direction of the old wing. It did not occur to her to ask Amelia, who was cleaning the small cabinet off the entrance to the wing, what had actually occurred. Mrs. Jennings had been so fretful, Vertiline was convinced there was something seriously amiss.

_What if her collapse is prelude to the sad events of my vision?_

That thought along renewed her speed and within moments she was standing before Penelope's suite. The door was locked – firmly so, without the usual trick of hitching the latch. Vertiline fumbled within her reticule for the key, and flung the door open. "Penelope!" she called, rushing towards the closed door of her cousin's bedroom. There was a muffled gasp and a thump, as though something large had fallen to the floor.

_Blast!_

The bedroom door was likewise locked, and Vertiline was forced to again use her key. Penelope was still in the process of pulling the bedclothes to her chin as Vertiline flung open the door – and her blue eyes widened when she realized that Penelope was unclothed. The obvious conclusion – that Penelope was suffering from a sore fever and had taken drastic means with which to rectify the situation – distinctly altered when Vertiline spied a set of clothes neatly folded upon a chair, complete with a pair of incriminating boots.

She strode quickly across the room, closing the door behind her as she did so. Vertiline bent over, picking up the nearest boot and holding it out in front of her. "I do not suppose the owner of this boot belongs to the foot that is poking out from underneath your bed, Penelope?"

"Bugger!" Deane Winchester's muffled voice proclaimed from underneath the bed. Penelope lowered her head and said nothing as Vertiline let the boot drop to the floor, its sharp echo resounding through the room.

"_Deane Winchester_?" Vertiline demanded. It was a sincere question coupled with a plea for understanding. "It was unfortunate enough that you allowed him to kiss you!" Penelope's green eyes flashed, and suddenly her cousin was staring at her with an expression like a thundercloud; an expression in full defense of the man Penelope had scorned scarcely a full twenty-four hours prior to being caught in bed with the bounder.

_Have you gone well and truly mad, Penelope?_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_I am an idiot. Why did I not go with her?_

Samuel shook his head, realizing belatedly that Mrs. Jennings was still holding onto his arm – unsteady upon her boots as they both watched Vertiline Lucas' back retreating before them. The pressure of Mrs. Jennings' hand increased, and Samuel's mouth dropped. The woman was actually measuring the muscle of his upper arm, a predatory gleam clearly marked underneath the brim of her ridiculously feathered hat.

"You are stronger than you seem, Mr. Samuel, underneath your aesthete clothing." The widow's eyes narrowed. "And you have done something different to your hair, have you not? The style becomes you." He could not mask his shock, for the widow suddenly laughed – sounding as old as she appeared – and added, "You cannot blame one such as I for _looking_, sir." Thankfully, Mrs. Jennings removed her hand from his arm. The widow smirked at him. "Although your brother's muscles are a trifle more developed than yours," she added.

"A boon to know," he said with an embarrassed cough. _I have just been violated by a **widow**! _"You have my thanks, Mrs. Jennings." Samuel shook his head sharply. "I do not suppose you know where I may find His Lordship?"

"Winston?" The widow's voice increased by nearly an octave. "He is presently in his library, bemoaning what he believes to be a scratch on his desk – and, if memory serves, the fact that it is now _rickety_." Mrs. Jennings pursed her lips. "What could shake the foundations of a desk so large?"

Samuel knew the answer – _Deane Winchester_ – but said nothing; he merely nodded his leave towards the older woman's hat and turned his steps towards the library, retracing the route he and Vertiline had taken earlier that day. It was horrific enough that Deane was giving Penelope Harcourt the spurs, but now his older brother had damaged their host's _furniture_ while doing so. Samuel shook his head, and a glimpse of Vertiline Lucas underneath him – spread upon that blasted desk – shook him to the very core.

_Deane has corrupted me._

There was a rustle of paperwork muffled by the large library door, followed almost immediately by a sharp cough and the sound of a liquid being poured into a glass. Winston Hillsworth was notorious for his love of whisky, and Samuel hoped such a drink would put him in a better mood – given the state in which his brother had left their host's prized possession.

He knocked briskly. "Come in!" Lord Hillsworth said. "The door is open."

"Have you time for a discussion, sir?" Samuel asked, peering into the room from behind the door. He had no desire to further exacerbate the man's state before broaching the subject of his ward. The Practitioner had placed both hands upon the desk edge nearest to his chair and was pressing down upon it vigorously, grunting as the whisky in his glass splattered from the movement.

Winston Hillsworth scowled. "Come into the room, Samuel. A man of your intellect should not barricade himself behind a door." The Practitioner gestured to the chair placed across from his at the desk. As Samuel sat down, Lord Hillsworth's eyes suddenly became curious. "What do you wish to discuss, my boy?" He did not wait for Samuel's answer. "Do you like whisky?" Winston Hillsworth was already pouring more whisky into an unused glass.

"Thank you." Samuel sipped once, and then set the tumbler onto the desk.

"You are not here to discuss the conference." Winston Hillsworth stated it baldly.

Samuel shook his head. "I am not, sir. There is a question of a rather serious and delicate nature that I wish to relay."

"The answer is no, Samuel." The Practitioner sighed loudly, and there was a compassionate lilt to his shoulders. "It is not that I would not wish a Practitioner within the family, my boy. In fact, I have longed for one – and a man of your gifts would be a welcome addition to my line…" The old man looked as though he regretted what he was yet to say. "I will be blunt, my boy. Your sensitive nature would rail against my daughter's temper. Penelope requires a _strong _hand."

"Mrs. Harcourt?" Samuel's eyes widened. _And Penelope Harcourt simply requires a man appreciates the fact that she does not require a strong hand._ "I am not here to speak with you about your daughter, sir. I am here about…" His voice trailed off, and suddenly he was blushing. Vertiline Lucas could reduce him to a twelve-year-old boy even when she was no longer in the room with him. "Your ward," Samuel added.

"Oh." Winston Hillsworth straightened his back within his chair. "I had thought after yesterday morning's outburst that you had fallen prey to her intellect…" It was the Practitioner's turn to shake his head, a rueful smile on his face. "But I see that is not the case." He leaned forward. "You have chosen the more even-tempered of the two, my boy." His smile turned into a grin, as though there was more Winston Hillsworth _could_ say. "Besides, with you courting my niece, I can then importune your assistance in procuring the one suitor perverse enough to withstand the trials of my tempestuous daughter's nature."

Samuel did not hear anything beyond '_courting my niece'_ and he found himself blinking furiously. "Then I have your permission, sir?"

Winston Hillsworth's laugh suddenly boomed throughout the library. "My boy, you have more than my permission. You have my blessing." The Practitioner swallowed his entire tumbler of whisky. "Francis Templeton is a prat. I have no idea what Vertiline was thinking by agreeing to the courtship."

Samuel said nothing, but he raised his own tumbler to Winston Hillsworth before draining the glass. He laughed along with the Practitioner when the man added, "I would love to be a fly upon the wall when you convey to Mr. Templeton that your hat is also being thrown into the ring." Samuel found himself returning the older man's grin, wishing his father would look upon him so once before John Winchester expired.

_Damn and blast! How am I going to explain this to Deane?_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"_What _are you doing?" It was the only question that Vertiline could muster when facing her cousin's angry eyes. "What if I were Mrs. Jennings? What possible excuse could you relay? What of your reputation?" It was an old tactic, referring to Penelope's sense of duty. Her cousin had long maintained that their reputations were their prized possessions when it came to familial duty. _Perhaps it will shock some sense into her head._

"I would tell her the same thing I would tell you, cousin." Penelope's voice sounded more assured than Vertiline would have expected, and there was a shuffle underneath the bed as Deane Winchester's foot disappeared.

"Which is?" It was a demand. Vertiline shook her head sadly.

"That it is none of your business whom I choose," her cousin said, and there was a spark in Penelope's eyes that Vertiline had never seen before. Penelope's eyes narrowed sharply, and suddenly her voice became dangerously muted. "And did you not tell me that I should _live_, Vertiline Lucas?"

"I do not recall that my advice included finding the nearest rake with whom to _spark_!" She shook her head once more. "_Deane Winchester_? Of all the men attending your father's conference, _he_ is the one upon whom you set your sights?"

"It was long overdue." Penelope's sharp laugh pricked within Vertiline's chest, and she remembered seeing that look upon her cousin's face once before – long ago on a Christmas day. "You know why I married Peter Harcourt, and you know what it cost me." Her cousin's face crumpled. "You and Mary are the only ones who know I would have made a different choice, were it mine to make."

"_He_ is the boy you knew a long time ago?" Vertiline's voice was louder than she intended. She gestured as best she could towards the skirt of the bedding.

"There is no man more selfless in this world," Penelope retorted. Vertiline could not stop herself from snorting. Her cousin was clearly besotted, caught within the spell of Deane Winchester's preternatural charms.

_I cannot listen to any more of this!_

"I'll grant that he is handsome, cousin, but you cannot allow that to colour your judgment."

"Ah, yes. Deane is so handsome that I have suddenly been struck dumb. If you could please be so kind as to wipe the drool from my chin, I will offer happy thanks."

There was a muffled sound underneath the bed that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and Deane Winchester's rumpled head appeared suddenly at her feet. The shock of his face materializing near her boot cut off Vertiline's reply. "Have a care, Miss Lucas. I am _still _in the room," the damnable man said with a cocky grin.

"You are lucky, sir, that I am well-mannered. At this moment, there is nothing I wish to accomplish more dearly than to kick your fiendish head with the toe of my boot," Vertiline snapped. "And doubly so that I am not relaying this discovery to my uncle, for surely he would have you forcibly removed from the estate." Her head snapped sharply on her neck. "This conversation is not over, cousin."

"It is," Penelope replied simply.

"It is _not_, but I must now take my leave."

Penelope turned her face away, which enraged Vertiline all the more. _She is dismissing me. Me!_ Vertiline said not a word in reply, but turned upon her heel and stormed from Penelope's bedroom – slamming the door forcefully behind her.

_That horrible man! Has he cast some spell on her?_

The decision was made before she let go of the bedroom door's handle. If Deane Winchester was unduly influencing her cousin's good sense, _someone_ needed to take matters into her capable hands and retrieve a semblance of normalcy from the situation. Vertiline stormed across the outer room of Penelope's suite as loudly as she could, and shut the door powerfully while remaining inside the suite. She waited for a moment; when she heard their voices, she tiptoed back towards the door as quietly as possible.

"…what's best for me."

Vertiline carefully leaned her ear against the door.

"You argue as though you were Winchesters." There was a shifting of bedclothes, and the sounds of springs giving. "Although neither of you resorted to threats of fisticuffs."

"We fight like Hillsworths, Deane. All bluster and words – but we will be on the mend by bedtime." Penelope sighed. "My cousin was concerned. There is no fault in that."

"Perhaps you do not think so, but _I _certainly did not fare well as a result of your fair cousin's visit." Deane Winchester snorted. "Look at him, Penelope. I am gravely wounded! He is listing to the right."

"It must have been the shock of connecting so quickly with the floor." There was a droll tone in her cousin's voice. "You _could_ have it examined. _I_ might even be persuaded to do so, given the proper incentive." Vertiline's jaw dropped.

"If you were willing to – " The man made a gasping sound, deep within his throat, as a soft wet noise reached Vertiline's ear past the muffled door. She did not even wish to know what was occurring amidst the walls of her cousin's bedroom, especially when wordless mewls erupted from the man – as though Deane Winchester's very sanity was becoming unstrung. "Penny," he said weakly when he found his voice. "_Please_."

Her cousin laughed. "I believe it is safe to recommend that despite your grave wound, _he_ appears recovered."

"I am relieved beyond all measure."

"But I must perform one final test. It is the only way to be certain, Deane." Vertiline's cheeks flushed for what seemed like the hundredth time that day as the springs within the mattress took up a regular tempo. She had been well informed as to the mechanics of a woman's duty, but she did not expect Penelope's sighs of pleasure. The temptation to look through the keyhole was almost too great for Vertiline to bear, and she swallowed – steeling her courage so that she could depart as quietly as possible.

Penelope's voice broke into her thoughts. "Please do not leave me again," her cousin said softly. Vertiline could not leave herself upon hearing those words; curiosity – her damnable flaw – kept her rooted to the spot.

"Penelope." Deane Winchester took a deep breath, audible beyond the wooden door. "Do not…" Vertiline heard a quiet sniffle. "You know what will happen. The crea – "

"I know only _one_ thing." Her cousin interrupted fiercely.

"And that is?"

"I am yours, Deane Winchester." There was a hitch to Penelope's breath. "So I give you fair warning – I will chase you to the ends of the Earth itself on my _stunted _legs."

Deane Winchester's laugh devolved into a gasp. "And I do not doubt that you would catch me, Penelope Harcourt." Her cousin was moaning, and their breath quickened. Vertiline felt a cold pain within the midst of her stomach – she had sorely misjudged them both. For all that his brother thought otherwise, Deane was not misleading her cousin. _My instincts have never been so off course as they are today._ Her cousin gave a small cry, and a mighty growl burst forth from Deane Winchester – a sound that was wrenched from deep within him, an inevitable prelude to the silence that followed the outburst.

"But neither will I give you cause to do so," he added softly, breaking the silence. He was still catching his breath.

"Truly?" Penelope sounded as young as the girl who had not yet met Peter Harcourt. _Oh, Penny…_

"Truly. Your stunted legs _are_ mine." He chuckled. "And I would not wish you to strain them, for they are rather fetching. I have _other_ plans for them." Deane Winchester's voice suddenly sank to a whisper, and Vertiline could not make out his next words – only that Penelope gave a contented laugh as she murmured her answer.

Yet Vertiline was gifted with one realization as she listened to the undertone of their voices – joyful in spite of the horrors happening around them. _Peter never spoke to her thus._ The elder Winchester, rogue that he was, had just pledged _something_ to her cousin. Vertiline knew not what, but it was enough to make her flee shamefully from the room – heedless of whether they heard her, only knowing that she had made a vital misstep.

_I owe **him** an apology. _

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Samuel's brow furrowed as he stumbled towards the room he was sharing with his older brother. It occurred to him, after three tumblers of whisky, that he should have paced himself despite the cause for celebration. Winston Hillsworth approved of his plans for courting Vertiline Lucas, the blonde-haired goddess who shared his visions and would – Fate willing – share his life. What were thoughts of moderation compared to the burn of the alcohol in his stomach, or the burst of laughter from his mentor's belly as Lord Hillsworth offered a multitude of congratulations?

Perhaps he should have divulged the secrets of the Winchester family. Samuel conceded that it was not _entirely_ fair to refrain from the disclosure of so dangerous a mystery – but he had no intentions of Vertiline falling prey to the Creature. Too many had already died at the hands of the foul beast, and Samuel would not allow Vertiline to do so. If Deane's theories were correct, his feelings for Vertiline assuredly marked her as a target.

His shoulder brushed a wall, and Samuel paused to catch his bearings. The rings once more flashed before his eyes, a curious symbol upon both that seemed damnably familiar. It was at times such as this that Deane and Samuel would pool their resources and confer between themselves to determine a theory or a solution to their problem – but that was damned difficult to accomplish when one's older brother had gone missing.

Samuel had even located the servant's quarters.

He turned a corner, hearing heavy breathing behind him – directly before the rush of a waistcoat alerted Samuel to the impending attack. The instinct of the chase superseded his intoxicated state, and Samuel whirled – pressing his hand against his attacker's neck as Samuel threw him into the wall. Green-blue eyes narrowed. "Mr. Templeton?"

Francis Templeton's handsome features were distorted into a monster's visage. "Mr. Winchester," the man answered, voice full of contempt and loathing – somewhat choked but angry all the same.

"Why are you following me?" Samuel demanded. He lessened the pressure of his hand, but did not allow Francis Templeton measure in which to pursue another attack.

"You are a devil in disguise, Samuel Winchester. Do not think I am unaware of your trip to Westshire with _my_ intended." Templeton scowled. "It is no matter. I would not have married her once I had her, but I had high hopes of being her first." His eyes twinkled suddenly. "Do you know that her knees are said to be locked? I do not believe that you will be any more successful in stealing Vertiline Lucas' key than the rest of us. Make no mistake, Mr. Winchester. She can work a man into a frenzy. I pined away for months before realizing she would not bend."

"I do not wish to steal her key," Samuel replied. _This man is a toad._ "And you are not fit to speak her name."

"Are you threatening me, you aesthete intellectual?"

"I do not need to threaten you, Francis Templeton," Samuel returned with a sneer. "A threat implies a position of inequality. I know that in all manner of fisticuffs, pistols and swords that I can thrash you to within an inch of your life." His tone was soft, but full of the urgency any Winchester male could engender when something precious was threatened.

"Are you interested in settling purchase with those words?" Francis Templeton was clearly unimpressed with Samuel's reply. "Are you willing to reconcile your naïve concerns regarding Vertiline Lucas' constant cock-teasing with a duel?"

"No," Samuel returned. "I am simply interested in the surcease of your useless prattle!" He grabbed Templeton by the waistcoat, twisting him away from the wall, and connected his free hand soundly to the odious man's chin. Templeton went sprawling to the floor, landing with sickening thud upon the marble underneath Samuel's feet. "And I warned you, Templeton. You are not fit to speak her name."

"You bast – " Francis Templeton's eyes appeared glazed, and he moaned – half-rising to his feet before falling back to the ground.

Samuel knelt beside him. "The next time I hear you relay such a misguided representation regarding so gentle a lady, I will ensure that you never speak again." There was no arguing with his cold tone, a Winchester's wrath against those who would harm the innocent. The man did not need to know that Samuel would not act upon the words; it was enough to merely convince Francis Templeton that he would. "Do you understand, Templeton?"

The man nodded.

Samuel smiled. "Then we are done." There was the shuffle of footsteps behind him, but he was too angry to care about a witness. "As soon as you are capable, you will go to Winston Hillsworth and remove your suit upon his ward. I will not ask you to leave in shame, Francis Templeton, but you will accede all manner of politeness towards those who fall under my protection. Vertiline Lucas is no longer your concern."

Francis Templeton said nothing to his speech, though his glassy eyes watered and his nostrils flared. There came a sigh from behind them, and Samuel recognized Wharrow. The head butler stepped from the shadows, placing an arm underneath Templeton's and helping the man stagger to his feet. The butler glanced at Samuel with a small smile. "Nicely done, sir. I have been wishing to take that exact measure for some time now." The butler's eyes widened, but he said nothing else – turning to walk Templeton down the hall.

Samuel felt a hand slip into his own, and he turned to face Vertiline Lucas. Her blue eyes were wide, and she looked so unsettled that he placed both hands upon her arms to steady her. "Samuel Winchester?" she said softly.

"Yes?"

"Why are you not kissing me?"

"I have no idea," Samuel returned, bringing his mouth down upon hers soundly, pressing her backwards against the wall. Vertiline Lucas gave a small sigh as she opened her mouth to his, and she tasted as sweet as the rain swept air on a summer's day.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_I should know better than to ask the obvious question regarding what action could surpass a previous surprise, but I asked it this morning all the same as Samuel Winchester and I walked towards Westshire in the midst of a rainstorm. _

_The more appropriate question, I would surmise, is when the life of Vertiline Lucas grew to include answers for questions I had not yet conceived – when the impossible became true._

_I wonder if my cousin is asking herself the same questions. _

_Aunt Cecily would understand this need. She was raised to see the signs around us, symbols and messages hidden within the wind or the songs of birds. She would say that truth is written in the earth itself, and that one can find any answer if one is diligent in the search. She believed in the impossible._

_Just like the Winchesters. _

_They are a topic upon which I could expound for hours, Dear One, and still not provide a proper understanding regarding the conundrum they represent to our life at Highchurch. How did they know that such an occurrence would pass? Samuel has said he did not have a vision that led him here, yet they are here all the same. And he is worried about what we discovered in town – signs, he said, of something much larger than even he had anticipated, with clues that he had not yet uncovered._

_That should be the important task, helping them solve this mystery, and yet my mind cannot still the memory of his lips upon mine – or how I wished he had pursued something less chaste than simply a kiss. _

_To be honest, Dear One, it was more than a kiss. Several of them in point of fact, each more frenzied than the last until we were forced to accede that we were in danger of someone spying upon us. I am afraid I was terribly improper. There is certainly something to be said for living in the moment despite the fear that seems to choke us when we stop to remember the creature that is rampaging through the countryside – harming innocent people like Pucky Childers._

_I do not expect the next several days will be easy ones, nor yet the days that come afterwards – when their mission will take them somewhere else upon the Continent. Every hunt could be their last. And that? That is something that I do not wish to contemplate, even though I know that I must. _

_Yet I cannot quite encompass the fact that Samuel Winchester wishes to say something more serious to me – something which he has not yet relayed. There is nothing he could say that will change my decision, of course. But it seems to frighten him all the same. I wonder if it is somehow related to his visions? _

_There is still so much more that I should relay, but the evening meal will be soon upon us – and I promised Samuel that we would confer with Penelope and his older brother upon its conclusion. I suspect that this evening will end with another night of tramping across the countryside, trying to stop the Creature before it attacks someone else._

_Now if only I can convince Samuel to allow me to use one of his guns…_

* * *

A/N:

Samuel and Vertiline skirted the very edges of propriety in this chapter by traveling to Westshire unattended, given their age and position. Even though Vertiline is being courted by another man, they should not have been traveling without a chaperone. (And it does amuse me that Penelope, as a widow, would have been an appropriate choice despite her behavior…) Given that they are presently in the country, they might have had more leeway – Vertiline's reputation would not have been diminished as much as it might have been in more urbane landscape.

I suspect my feminist tendencies have come into play as a result of both female main characters. Both Penelope and Vertiline are victims of their circumstances, but I hope that I am giving them the power to move beyond those boundaries. Something which would not have been possible with more "typical" gentlemen than the Winchesters.

I was originally going to have Samuel accept Templeton's duel, but decided otherwise. It was more satisfying to have him thrash Templeton instead.

Next chapter marks the debut of x-ray lenses for the night goggles. Happy belated birthday, quellefromage!

As always, criticism is welcome and comments makes me dizzy. (Well, dizzier. I am, by nature, a very dizzy fangirl.)


End file.
